


The Way Down

by lettered



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Powerful Harry, Social Anxiety, hermit Harry, nervous breakdown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:39:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 65,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4902346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/lettered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is overwhelmed by his own power and fame and angst, so he's become a hermit.  Draco Malfoy is tired of the melodrama.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the first Harry/Draco fics I ever wrote and it's pretty different than a lot of my other Harry/Draco. Many of my other Harry/Draco fics aren't trying to say something; I'm blowing off steam and having fun. I wrote this fic because I wanted to express something about the characters and about a difficult time in my life. As a result it's both better and worse than a lot of my other stuff--better, because it tries (in admittedly clumsy ways) to deal with issues and wrap things up. (Some of you may have noticed I often don't bother with good endings; it's because they bore me. Sorry.) This is worse, however, because it's more accidentally fanon (rather than purposely fanon) than most of the other stuff, and is in some ways quite generic. That said, this story is special to me, which is perhaps why I delayed getting it up on AO3 for so long. I do hope you enjoy.
> 
> -edited on 1/14/11 with help from [](http://scabbyfish.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://scabbyfish.livejournal.com/)**scabbyfish**. Thank you, R!

All was well.

Harry had defeated Voldemort. He’d become an Auror, had a woman he loved by his side, friends he loved as much at his back. A life of family, adventure, success, or all three spread out before him.

Of course there was the part about how defeating Voldemort just might have driven him mad.

And about how being an Auror probably drove him madder still. As evidenced by the minor incident in which he'd managed to Splinch three foreign dignitaries. And when he'd made dragon abandon her eggs with a wave of his hand. And defeated an entire army of Inferi single-handedly. In one night. And there was also that time he killed Dolores Umbridge. Accidentally. With his brain.

And as for the woman he loved by his side: at first, it’d just been a monster in Harry’s chest when he knew other men were looking at Ginny, wanting her. But then it had begun to claw inside him when anyone looked at her, and then when she looked at anyone else. The problem was with her being by his side—he didn’t want her to leave, not ever; he wanted to own her, possess her, control her. He didn’t want Ginny to cross the room to get herself a glass of water, and he knew that this must be wrong.

He felt the monster sometimes even with Ron and Hermione; he was jealous of them too. He was jealous even of the way they loved each other; he wanted them to stop; he wanted them to include him; he thought of them in ways he shouldn’t; he didn’t know what he wanted.

Harry woke up sometimes in King’s Cross. The platform was covered by thin mist, silver in the dream-light. Something there was crying. A broken, mutilated thing was crying. It was under the chair. It was under the stairs. It was a child; it was dying inside every dark place.

Harry never saved it, and woke up.

Maybe the thing inside was Voldemort, still at work. Maybe Voldemort had given Harry something of himself the second time the Dark Lord had lobbed a killing curse at the Boy Who Lived, just like the first time. Maybe Voldemort had made a last Horcrux the moment before he died; maybe it was a piece of the Dark Lord’s soul inside Harry welling with power, scraping against his ribs and heart, hungry for revenge, possession, control, life. Harry was more powerful than he had ever been. He was more powerful than almost anyone had ever been.

Or perhaps, in defeating Voldemort, Harry had gained not the presence of the Dark Lord within him, but something more of himself. Maybe it made sense that Harry Potter could dance with dragons and kill people with a glance; he had defeated the most powerful wizard in existence. Maybe, having saved all their lives, it was even right that he should be in control; maybe it was just that he should do whatever he wanted, how he wanted to.

Just like the Dark Lord.

Naturally, Harry couldn’t stand the thought. So he quit the Aurors for a life of wild depravity, and quit Ginny Weasley for a long line of prostitutes and desperate characters. Of course, wizarding papers had a field day with Harry Potter’s descent into the depths, but Harry thought that in living a life filled with parties, wild society, irresponsible, ill-advised liaisons, he would be putting no one in danger but himself.

Which, of course, was utterly untrue. He could hurt everyone.

After twenty months, he quit the life of wild depravity for the life of a subdued hermit, and quit relationships completely.

As for the bit about his friends at his back, he turned his back on them altogether.

*

Well, Harry did get better. Eventually.

That's what this story is about.

 

 

**Chapter 1**

The first time Draco Malfoy came to Chimera Downs, twilight was just falling.

Harry felt the wards breach and went outside. Forearms on the fence that was not white, he watched the small figure on the field progress down the slope into the form of a man. There was no road down.

The man strode through the grass, which came up knee high or to thigh and was interspersed with weeds. As the figure came closer, Harry could see his hair was so light it was almost white. He wore a cream colored suit without a waistcoat, the jacket slung over his shoulder. His shirt was white, open at the throat.

The light that time of evening was magical. The man’s hair was painted gold, his shirt likewise; the line of his throat shone gold. Gold glowed all around him. When the man was at last at the gate, Harry needed a moment to realize that the features were pointed, the expression pinched. The posture was arrogant and proud, and the turn of the lip was ugly. Of course it was; it was Draco Malfoy.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry had not moved.

“Hullo, Harry Potter.”

His tone was easy, laid-back, but underneath was a current just as snide as Harry remembered. “Some people put up wards for a reason,” Harry said.

“We’ve all heard how you want to be alone to feel sorry for yourself and brood.”

“Sod off.”

Carefully, Malfoy put his jacket over the top rung of the gate. “I think I’ll stay, thank you.”

“What do you want?” Harry asked again.

Malfoy appeared to be considering. “It has to do with Granger,” he condescended to answer at long last.

Harry went very still. He had not seen Hermione in six months. “What about Hermione?”

“So you do care about her.” Malfoy’s expression now was smug.

“I said, what about her,” Harry said through gritted teeth.

“Did you know she’s going to have a baby?”

“I—what?” Harry felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, like a sickness only worse. It came to settle somewhere at his center, hard and tight, twisting him all the way up to his throat.

“Due in three months.”

“How do you know about . . . Hermione?”

Malfoy hummed again, looking very nonchalant, or else self-satisfied. “When was the last time you talked to her?”

“Why should I believe anything you say?”

“My, my. Aren’t we touchy.” Malfoy started inspecting his nails.

Harry could feel himself getting angry. The tight feeling spiraling up from his gut to his throat was beginning to claw, and soon he would not be able to keep it down. This was why he hadn’t seen Hermione. This was why he hadn’t been seeing anyone. He was not fit to be near other human beings, and Malfoy had no right to make implications. Malfoy had no idea. “Fuck you,” Harry said.

Malfoy nails apparently fascinated him. “No, thank you. I expect you don’t want further information on Granger, then, if you’re going to be in a strop.”

Harry’s knuckles were white. “I don’t need to find out about Hermione from you.”

“Oh, yes. I imagine you’re in splendid touch with her. Owl her regularly, do you? Take afternoon tea?”

“What business is it of yours?”

Malfoy at last seemed to grow bored of his nails. He rolled his eyes. “Because everything revolves around you, Potter. Or have you forgotten? I happen to work in the Ministry of Magic. Granger happens to be my immediate supervisor. Honestly, you can't have been ignorant of this fact. Or does your complete lack of attention to people you presume to call friends—”

“Shut up.”

“Someone has to talk sense to you.”

“No,” Harry said, turning around. “No one really does.” He went back into the cottage.

Malfoy stood at the fence and watched him go.

*  
  
The second time Draco Malfoy came to Chimera Downs, Harry knew that he should not go down to the fence. He should not open his mouth. He should pretend Malfoy was not there at all. In fact, he should hex Malfoy into next week so Malfoy couldn’t be there at all. He could eliminate Malfoy completely if he wanted. That was why Harry went down to the fence: he was afraid of what he might do otherwise.

Harry had come to Chimera Downs to protect his friends and everyone else from such impulses. He had meant to learn to control the monster in his chest, to lock it away so that it could never hurt anyone. He had been in Chimera Downs six months, and was no further along than he had been when he had arrived. He needed more time, and Malfoy wasn’t helping.

Malfoy walked down the slope. Again he wore white, his lean torso a shadow in the thin shirt, silk translucent in the light. Somewhere between Malfoy and the setting sun, a crane rose from its nest, spreading wide milk wings.

When Malfoy came up to the fence, he laid his jacket over the rail. “Hullo, Potter,” he said softly, as though he were there at the gate by appointment.

Harry scowled darkly and said nothing.

Slowly, Malfoy smirked. “Granger sends regards.”

Harry’s hand itched by his side. He still said nothing.

“Actually,” Malfoy went on conversationally, “she’s a bit too busy with her life falling apart to pay much attention to you. Sorry. I know you like attention.”

Harry’s hand clenched into a fist.

“It’s Weasel. Naturally. Weasel never was good enough for her.”

Harry felt like he was going to hurt Malfoy. He made himself stop, forcibly unclenching his hand and his jaw. He turned his face away. “What about Ron?” he asked, voice quiet.

“You know Weasel. Always the coward. The moment anything becomes difficult, he turns tail.”

Harry opened his mouth, because Ron wasn’t a coward; he never ran away; he stood up to anything and everything and he did it by Harry’s side. Draco Malfoy was a prat, and Malfoy calling Ron a coward was—but Ron wasn’t by Harry’s side any more.

“It’s the idea of being a father that Weasel can’t handle,” Malfoy went on. “He’s a failure, not good enough: that sort of rot.”

Harry closed his eyes. “Why are you here?” he asked for the third time.

Malfoy glanced at the sycamore that stood on the horizon of the slope. He looked at the cottage, and then at Harry. When he spoke, his voice was light. “Why are you?”

“This is where I live.”

“Yes. But why?”

“I’m the one asking questions, Malfoy.”

Malfoy made a quiet humming noise, looking thoughtful. His posture mimicked Harry’s, leaning against the fence, standing about three feet away. His wrists dangled over onto Harry’s side, and Malfoy had neatly folded back the cuffs of his shirt. It was a warm night. Malfoy had bony wrists.

At last, Malfoy stirred. “If you’ll remember,” he said quietly, and the crickets whispered too, “you defeated the Dark Lord. You saved us; me, Goyle, who knows how many others."

“So, what?” Harry said. “You’ve come to thank me?” His voice was thick with sarcasm. He was sick of people thanking him, frankly, as though he were a hero. They were only thinking of themselves, the comforting image they held of him. The fact that even Malfoy felt that way set him right on edge.

Malfoy looked startled, then sneered. "Of course not." He looked at Harry shrewdly, his eyes narrowed, lips pressed together. “What kind of life is this for the Boy Who Lived? Save everyone your quarter-life crisis angst, and Avada Kedavra yourself already. It would save everyone a great deal of worry; your friends needn't be concerned with giving you the time and space you supposedly need. You could just die.” He seemed to think this was a grand idea.

Harry, of course, had already thought of that. Looking down at his hands, he asked quietly, “Is that what you came here for, then?”

“What? No.” Malfoy looked mildly disgusted.

“Then why?”

“I've told you: Granger keeps storming about like a Hippogriff with its head cut off. Unbearable to work with, and it's your fault. Worse still, she's likely to make you the baby's godfather whether you're around or not, and you know what absent godfathers are like: they completely ruin a chap.”

Harry looked at his hands again. “You can’t expect me to believe you came here just because you’re concerned about Hermione.”

Malfoy smiled grimly. “Concerned for Granger? I’m concerned for myself, Potter. Hormones are frightening things. Combined with a suicidal best friend—well, I haven't a hope of getting any work done. And that's not even factoring in Weasel, who is 'worth something, and won’t make a miserable father, _honestly_ , Ron.’”

It was a fair imitation, and made Harry swallow hard. He could hear Hermione saying those words, and Ron refusing to believe them. He could see himself being there, taking Ron out for Butterbeers, reminiscing about old times—about Malfoy getting turned into a ferret, about the saves Ron had made in Quidditch, about all the times Ron had saved his life. And then Ron would remember he could do it after all, and everything would be fine.

Harry almost put a hand up to his scar. Of course it wasn’t burning. The scar would never burn again—and yet, sometimes, he could swear that it still hurt. “Go away,” he said, pressing his hands to his temples instead.

“I’ll just convey your regrets to Granger, shall I?” Malfoy didn’t move.

Harry’s tone was weary. “She’s a Weasley.”

Malfoy looked scandalized. “What filthy things you do say.”

“Seriously, Malfoy. Just go away.” Harry felt his fists clench without him meaning them to. “No one will get hurt.”

“Are you threatening me now?” Malfoy looked interested.

_Yes!_ “No,” Harry gritted out.

“Your eyes have gone rather strange.”

Harry closed them quickly. They were hot; the rest of him felt cold. He felt as though he were losing blood. He looked at his hand; it was a tell-tale pale.

Harry kept his eyes closed and took deep breaths. He had been teaching himself to do this, but he could not think of pleasant things—not happy memories, anyway: his parents' smiles, holidays at the Burrow, one late night with Ron, Neville, and Seamus in the Gryffindor common room, a breakfast with Sirius, Hermione’s arms around him, kissing Ginny Weasley.

Instead, Harry thought of the field. There was a smooth plain of grass. A hill rolled gently down. There was no road. Breezes came quite softly, ruffling the grass, and insects made steady, heavy droning noises. Then Draco Malfoy strode through the field, and the peace of it was marred.

“No need to throw a fit,” Malfoy said.

Harry breathed out, and opened his eyes. “I’m not.”

“Looked like you were.” Malfoy’s tone was lazy, unconcerned.

“What do you want?” Harry asked.

“I want you to visit Granger,” Malfoy said promptly.

Harry looked away. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Harry didn’t answer. After a while, Malfoy said, “It’s because you’re so special, isn’t it.”

Harry’s hand ached to hex Malfoy into the next century, but he thought of the field, and unclenched his fist. “It’s late,” he said instead.

It was getting darker, and Malfoy’s throat was a gleam in the shadows. “It is, rather; isn’t it?” He spoke in a pleasant tone, but Harry got the impression he wasn’t talking about the evening. “How long are you going to stay here in your grotto?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“No business.” Malfoy paused delicately. “But I’m interested.”

“Go away, Malfoy.”

Malfoy had gray eyes. Usually they seemed colorless, like water: sometimes blue, sometimes stormy, always clear. Now in the evening light they looked silver, and seemed to glitter at Harry, hard like flint or steel. “It’s a rather pitiful hovel,” he said, nodding at the cottage that stood behind Harry’s back.

“I said go away.”

“You do realize that it’s selfish holing yourself away down here,” Malfoy went on, as though he hadn’t heard.

“Selfish?” Harry was startled into asking.

“Oh, yes,” Malfoy hissed. “You’re just thinking of what you need, aren’t you. Your friends try to give it to you, because you’re Harry Potter, and you deserve anything you need, whatsoever you desire. And what of them? They don’t deserve a thing, because they’re not you.”

There was a clamoring in Harry’s ears, the monster coiled tight in his chest. Harry hated Malfoy in that moment, because every word he said was true. “Shut up,” Harry said.

Malfoy smiled slightly. “No.”

“What do you know about friends, anyway?” Harry sneered, because lobbing insults was an effective form of self-defense, however inelegant.

There was a line at the side of Malfoy’s mouth which appeared when he smiled. Not quite a dimple—more of a crease, really—it deepened now. “More than you, it seems,” he said, rather carelessly. “I’m in a position to help you particularly, Potter.”

Harry snorted.

“I am,” Malfoy insisted. “Most people like you. I don’t at all. In that regard I have the advantage over . . . almost everyone, really.”

“Here to help now, are you?” Harry mocked. “Thought you didn’t want to thank me.”

Straightening up, Malfoy slipped his hands into his pockets. He had a kind of easy posture, as though he belonged just there. The night was getting darker, but twilight lasted forever at Chimera Downs in this time of the summer. “Pansy Parkinson’s grandmother is Czech,” Malfoy said suddenly.

“Er,” Harry said. “That’s nice for her.”

Malfoy ignored him. “A year ago, Pansy visited the Czech Republic.”

“Did she now,” Harry said blandly. “Fascinating.”

“Quiet. I’m talking.”

“Well then,” said Harry.

“This is an origin story, Potter. Once a story ends, you go back to the beginning. You read everything taking into account the end, and the parts you thought you understood before take on new meaning. Pansy had come up to an ending, and that was why she went to the Czech Republic.”

“That’s nice,” said Harry.

“I’m very clever with metaphor,” Malfoy agreed, smiling smugly.

“And the point of your story is?”

Malfoy cocked his head to one side. “That Pansy is part Czech?” he suggested.

Harry had been part Voldemort. He didn’t say anything.

For a while, there was only the sound of crickets, singing in the night. Malfoy was looking speculatively at the cottage. At last, his eyes slid over to Harry’s. “She didn’t find out anything. Pansy,” he explained. “The places her grandmother had known were gone. No one knew her grandmother. Nobody remembered her. Everything was different.”

“It happens,” Harry said, without much sympathy.

“Yes,” Malfoy said. “It does.” He picked his jacket up off the rail, his fingers long and slender in the night. “So long, Harry Potter.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said.

Malfoy half turned back, his brow raised inquiringly.

Harry didn’t know what had compelled him to call out. He didn’t know what to say.

“Visit Granger,” Malfoy said, then turned and walked away.

He moved in shadows, the moon catching his hair. Harry watched him until he became very small, and then he simply disappeared, like a flame blown out by the wind.

The sky was full of stars.

*

The third time Draco Malfoy came to Chimera Downs, Harry had had owls from Hermione, Ron, and Molly Weasley.

Hermione did not beg Harry to come back. Instead, she said, _I understand. We understand. We miss you, but we understand. When you come back, we’ll still be here for you. You do what you need to do._ Between the lines Harry read, _Come back,_ and _We need you._

She asked how Harry was. _We’re worried_ and _you’re scaring us_ , read unwritten lines, and when she said that everything was alright, Harry wondered when she had learned to lie.

Harry folded up Hermione’s letter and put it in the drawer.

The owls from Ron and Molly arrived in the next few days. Harry didn’t read them, and put them in the drawer. Then he took out a sheet of parchment, and wrote, _Stop telling people where I am_ , because it was easier than, _I’m fine_ or _I still think I might never be fine again_. It was easier than, _I’ll be here for you_ or _I can’t be there for you_. It was easier than _I love you_.

Harry didn’t have an owl. He made the letter disappear with a tap of his wand.

When the wards broke that night, Harry thought about simply leaving. He could so easily run away. But through the window he saw the speck coming down the slope, and it was white. Harry went outside and waited at the gate. The speck resolved itself into a figure, and the figure was Malfoy.

Malfoy had always walked with a kind of saunter. At Hogwarts it had made him look ridiculous, and Harry had always thought it one of Malfoy's pretentions, just a put-on to make him look more sophisticated than he was. Watching him now, for the first time Harry realized that in school, Malfoy had been gawky, which may have accounted for at least a little of that ridiculousness.

Malfoy wasn’t gawky now, and whether or not his saunter had been faked then, now it was just how he moved. He had grown into it, and there was a peculiar kind of grace in his gait, even if it still made him look like a cocky git.

“I didn’t tell anyone where you are,” Malfoy said, and waved Harry’s note in front of his face. “How long do you think I’ve spent looking for you, versus how long Granger’s spent?”

“What?” Harry said.

Malfoy shrugged. “I had a look at her notes.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Should have known. You’re a little spy.”

Smirking, Malfoy said, “So says the bloke who couldn’t stop following me around sixth year.”

Harry frowned. “I knew you were up to something.”

“I was always up to something.” The smirk grew lazy, and Harry’s frown deepened.

“What are you doing back here?”

Malfoy raised a brow, feigning surprise. He waved the letter again. “Why, Potter. I thought you wanted me.”

“I wanted you to get away from me.”

“Mm. That’s why you go sending me special little messages.”

“Give me that.” Harry grabbed the letter. It said just what he had written on it. “This isn’t special; it’s for you to stop annoying me.”

“It’s special when you’re not sending them to the other boys in class.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I’m splendid. Thank you for asking.”

“I just want to be left alone!”

Malfoy went a shade paler, but his indolent tone didn’t change. “Careful. You’ll break your little house.”

Behind them, the cottage was shaking. Harry’s eyes were hot again, his blood gone cold. He tried to picture grass, and couldn’t. He tried to picture ice, and couldn’t. All of it was rainstorms and fire, and the ground was shaking, the old sycamore in the hollow was shaking, the fence was shaking, and Draco Malfoy just stood there. His eyes were wide and his skin had gone pasty, but he stood there still.

Harry felt the clawing in his chest. The monster could claw all the way out, out his mouth, out his fingertips. It was dark and coiled tight, but it could slither out, the way Nagini had slithered out of Bathilda Bagshot; it would wind and coil and with claws, it could kill. He could kill; he could hurt; he was pain and death and—

“Leave,” Harry whispered. “It’s not safe for you here.”  
  
“You can quit the theatrics, Potter,” Malfoy said. His arms were still resting on the gate, but his face was ashen, and his voice trembled.

“I can’t always control it,” Harry said. There was pleading in his voice.

Malfoy’s eyes were huge and dilated, so that they looked black in his white face. His voice still trembled. “You’re not special,” Malfoy whispered. “You’re just some bloke. You’re just spoiled and indulged for being the Savior of the Wizarding World.”

Harry shuddered, and the world stopped shaking.

Malfoy’s face was very sharp. “Don’t make me hit you over the head with a frying pan.”

Harry breathed and breathed and breathed, and at last the world seemed to tilt upright. Blood was coming back to his fingers, his hands. His head was pounding, his stomach roiling, but the world around him was still. It felt like his scar hurt again, even though he knew it didn’t.

Malfoy stood there, slender and tall, wrists dangling over the gate, collar open to the night air.

Swallowing, Harry closed his eyes. “A frying pan?” he asked at last.

“I saw it in a film.” Malfoy sniffed.

Harry blinked. “A film?”

“Yes, a film; you know, Muggle moving pictures. _Roger Rabbit_ , as it happens. Potter, are you feeling quite well.”

Harry frowned. He was feeling much better. “But you can’t watch _Roger Rabbit_.”

“It's a PG, for goodness sake. Why on earth not?”

“But you’re a Malfoy. You don’t watch _Rodger Rabbit_.”

Malfoy stared at him. Color was slowly coming back to his face, a healthy pink that was nothing like that ghastly white, and his eyes were becoming normal size—and narrowing. “I feel sorry for you,” he said finally, his voice tight. “Very sorry. I feel sorry that your emotional growth is so stunted that you're stuck at the age of seventeen, unable to learn or accept anything new, and _sorry_ that now all those Muggles and Ministers and Aurors a-and Dumbledores—” here his voice stumbled a little—“finally stopped manipulating you, you feel like you have to let loose and go crazy, that you can do anything you want, that you should be able to, that defeating the Dark Lord and saving us all and years of being used and—and—”

Malfoy stopped suddenly, and shoved his fists in his pockets. “I’m sorry for you,” he said again. “I really am. And I—but it doesn’t matter, really. You are still a human being, Harry Potter, no matter what you’ve done. No matter all the things that’ve happened to you that you think make you special—whether you think it makes you better than us or worse than us. You are still a man and you still have to act like one.” He turned away a little. “Oh yeah. And you’re still a specky git with bad hair.” Malfoy turned around to go away.

“Don’t,” Harry said.

Malfoy paused, the line of his thin shoulders stiff. When Harry didn’t say any more, he slowly turned around. “Afraid you’ll miss me, Potter?” he sneered.

Harry opened his mouth, and then realized he didn’t know why he had called Malfoy back. “About Hermione,” he said finally.

“Yes?” Malfoy looked impatient.

“I’m not ready.”

“Bollocks you’re not ready,” Malfoy said immediately. "You’re just the kind of ‘not ready’ you’ll always be if you don’t do something.” Malfoy came back, directly on the other side of the gate from Harry. He leaned in, his voice swift and low. “Don’t you think I know?”

“You don’t know anything about it.”  
  
Malfoy drew himself up. “You’re the one who doesn’t know anything.” Harry expected Malfoy’s voice to be cold, but it wasn’t. “You think you’re falling apart. You think you’ll break apart. Then you’ll get swept along the street, so many bits of debris, just rubbish in a bin. You think you might be nothing, and you just might let it happen. Let me tell you something, Potter. It won’t happen. You’ll stay together, not because you’re strong, but because you can’t fall apart. You’ll wake up every morning, and you’ll still be there. You’re still something and you’re someone, and it goes on and on and on.”

“I’m not afraid of being nothing.” Harry frowned. “I’m afraid of being everything.”

The easy air, the not-cold tone, fell away. “You’re afraid of yourself!” Malfoy exploded.

“Yes!” Harry shouted back.

Malfoy looked badly startled. “Oh.”

Harry relaxed a little. Talking to Malfoy was easier than talking to Ron or Hermione would be, easier than anyone else would be. Malfoy didn’t understand what was wrong. Malfoy didn’t want to understand what was wrong, and that was the best part, because it meant didn’t have to talk about it. Harry didn’t have to think about it, and Malfoy wouldn’t be concerned or pitying or understanding. Malfoy would just talk at him and Harry would talk back, and the thought of being able to do that made the monster curl quietly inside him, settling as if to go to sleep.

“Oh,” Malfoy said again. He gave a twisted smile. “Well, they say admitting you have a problem is the first step.”

“To what?” Harry said, with some suspicion.

“To pulling yourself together. Doing something. To not wallowing around feeling sorry for yourself making all your friends miserable.”

“Friends?” Harry’s suspicion remained.

Malfoy didn’t move for a moment. Then he stirred. “Not me, of course. I’m happy as a clam. Couldn’t care less how miserable you are.”

Harry realized his suspicions regarding Draco Malfoy were not going to subside any time soon. “Hmm,” was all he said, and Malfoy looked badly startled again.

“No, really,” Malfoy said anxiously.

“If you’re so happy, why do you keep coming here?”

“You mean this den of dreary depression?” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Really,” Harry said. “Why waste your time?”

“I did tell you about my work situation, right?”

“It’s an awful lot of effort to here, just because you’re being harangued by your boss.”

Malfoy looked at him incredulously. “Do you remember getting harangued by Granger? Because if you do, you'll remember that no length is too great.”

Talking like this, conversing just as if he were an actual human being, made Harry think he could almost do it. He still didn’t have the monster under control as much as he would like, but in these three evenings with Malfoy, Harry felt he’d come farther than he’d been in the last six months. Maybe Malfoy was right, maybe he needed to move on. He was never going to be ready if he didn’t try. “Alright,” Harry said.

Malfoy suddenly looked as suspicious as Harry had felt earlier. “Alright, what?”

“I’ll go see Hermione. Then will you be happy?”

Both Malfoy’s brows slowly rose, but he said only, “I told you I’m already happy.”

“Whatever, Malfoy,” Harry said, turning to go back to the cottage.

“Don’t make false promises,” Malfoy called out to him.

*

The next day, Harry took out Ron and Hermione’s letters, and tried to write out a reply.

He couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened with Malfoy—the shaking house, the grounds, the monster that clawed up inside him, the way he couldn’t seem to make it stop. If all of that could happen with someone he was indifferent to, it could be worse with people he really cared for. He could still hurt them.

Harry was trying to get better. He didn’t want to be wild and destructive, out of control, but he didn’t want to be a hermit, either. What he wanted to be was ready. He wanted to have time enough and space to control his power, whatever Voldemort had done to him, or he had done to himself. He wanted to deal with torture he had seen, those who had died, crimes he had helped commit. He wanted to process all the things he'd never been able to because he’d been too busy saving the world, and after that, too busy forgetting.

Harry wanted to take his losses—of friends, of battles, of self and heart and freedom—take them one by one and look at them, understand them, and deal with them. Then he wanted to put them in a deep dark place inside himself where they could never hurt anyone, where they could never scratch out from his chest and demand some kind of vengeance, recompense, life or light.

When he had wanted to leave, Ron and Hermione had been torn between making him stay, and giving him the time and space he needed. They knew what he had been through. They knew that as bad as things had gotten for them, Harry was the one who had walked into that forest alone. They understood that they couldn’t understand what had happened to him, and they understood that better than everyone else, and that was why they had let him go.

They were all like that—Harry’s friends, everyone he loved, so sad and understanding and willing to help, even after all Harry had done. Even Dean Thomas thought that Harry probably couldn’t help the way he’d been with Ginny; Dean had just wished Harry would be that way with someone else.

Then there was the rest of the world. The rest of the world fell into two categories: those who were in awe of Harry Potter, and those who feared him. He had, after all, saved the world. He was a hero, wasn’t he? But he had also Splinched three foreign dignitaries, tamed a nesting dragon, fought an army of Inferi, and killed Dolores Umbridge by accident. He was terrifying, and amazing, and no one could seem to decide which was prevalent.

When Harry Potter tried to tell anyone whom he did not already know, “I’m just a man,” they never seemed to believe him.

This was the way in which Malfoy was different.

If Harry told Ron and Hermione he wasn’t ready, they would understand. They shouldn’t, though. They should have given up on him by now; they should have given up on him by the time he quit the Aurors. Even then he had begun to be too wild, too careless. But Ron and Hermione would forgive him anything he did, because they loved him.

Harry’s hand closed on the parchment lying blank before him, and crumpled it into rubbish.

*

The next day, Harry visited Ron and Hermione.

The first time was difficult. They were so understanding, and he didn’t deserve it; people should earn things like love and trust, not be granted them. Harry was careful not to get angry, though. Things would go badly if he got angry. Hermione and Ron, in turn, could tell that he was being careful, and became even more understanding. Harry focused on the field.

There was a plain of grass, gently ruffled by a breeze. There was no road, and Draco Malfoy walked down the slope. Behind him flared up gold.

Hermione was talking about work and drafting legislation, something about Pygmy Puffs and werewolf rights. If she had been talking about the baby or Ron or the millions of things Harry had missed in the past six months, Harry didn't think he could have stood it. Instead she talked and talked, so Harry didn't have to. She had a pleasant voice. He had always liked it.

Ron kept plying him with Butterbeer, grinning like a madman.

When he was leaving, Hermione said, “Can we visit you at Chimera Downs?”

Harry's chest grew tight. “I . . .” he began.

“That’s alright,” Hermione said smoothly. She did not sound kind; she sounded like business. It sounded so good, Harry tried to get his breath back. “Come and see us every Thursday,” Hermione suggested instead.

Harry breathed out. “I don’t know if . . .”

“It can be quite regular,” Hermione said, in that same businesslike tone. “Every Thursday at seven. You can come by Floo. We can eat and talk for one hour, and then you can go home.”

“If you want,” Ron added.

“Okay,” Harry said. They were making it so easy by making it so very hard to say no.

“Missed you, mate,” Ron said, and clapped him on the back.

Harry thought that he could do this.

*

The next evening, Malfoy came strolling down the slope just at twilight. His legs looked long long long in the green grass, and Harry knew the way grasshoppers sometimes jumped up and snapped thighs. Saturn was in the sky.

When he got closer, Harry could tell that Malfoy had showered recently. His hair looked wet. It was darker, and curled under the ears.

“Well, you did it.”

Harry just looked at him. “How do you know?”

Malfoy put his nose in the air. “As if I can’t read Granger like a book.”  
  
“I guess you like her.”

“Who, me?” Malfoy looked mildly perturbed. “Anyone can read Granger, Potter. She lights up like a Lumos whenever someone comes through for her. So few people do. She’s surrounded by incompetence.”

“You think she deserves better.”

“Of course she deserves better!” Malfoy exclaimed, ruffled.

“See what I mean?” A dry smile tugged at Harry’s mouth.

“I admire intelligence,” Malfoy said irritably. “I don’t like seeing it put to waste.”

“Thanks.”

Malfoy frowned. “I didn’t say anything about your own intelligence. Granger’s cleverness is completely wasted on—”

Somehow while Harry had been slowly going mad, Malfoy had forgotten how to be a mindless bigoted prat. “I meant thanks for suggesting I visit.”

Malfoy opened his mouth. Then he closed it again, and swallowed. “Oh,” he said, scowling.

“What you said about . . . about being ready,” Harry said. “That helped.”

“I’m a very helpful person.”

Harry was watching him. Malfoy had brightened considerably. “That stuff you said about being nothing—”

“—was all wisdom I’ve garnered in my old age,” Malfoy said quickly. “I have become sage-like. Ask me anything. I’m thinking about growing a beard.”

Harry blinked. “A beard?”

Malfoy tilted his head. “Why not?”

“It would be . . .” Harry frowned, “. . . wispy.”

Drawing himself up, Malfoy said, “My beard would not be wispy.”

Harry realized they were talking about Malfoy’s beard. He was okay with that, he thought.

When Harry thought of the field, with the waving grass and the sycamore on the horizon, Malfoy strolling down the rise. Somehow that was alright; Harry wondered why. Ginny never could be in that field, or Ron or Hermione. People he had loved, friends, enemies, strangers, could never be in that field.

Harry had disliked Malfoy intensely, had mistrusted him, yet now he felt no animosity. He felt no friendship either, but the result was not indifference. Now when he thought of Malfoy, he felt, more than anything, a sense of resolution. Perhaps that was something you could feel only towards someone you had once considered an enemy. It felt like peace.

“It would be wispy,” Harry said, and smirked.

Malfoy’s shoulders were the stiff little line they became when he was cross. “I’ll have you know that my family has a great tradition of sporting fine facial hair.”

“Come in.”

“No, I—what?”

“I asked you to come inside.”

Malfoy looked startled. His shoulders hunched. “Why?”

“I might want to cut you up into little pieces and use you for dark rituals,” Harry suggested.

Malfoy darted a nervous glance over Harry's shoulder at the cottage. “Not funny.”

“We can play Exploding Snap.”

“Because you’re _twelve_?”

Harry tried to think of something else normal people did. “We can have a drinks.”

“Potter,” Malfoy started, and then stopped, seeming to steel himself. “I . . . yes. Alright.” He looked defiant. “Fine. Let’s go in and have a drink.”

Harry brushed down the wards, and opened the gate.

Still looking slightly pale and distinctly ruffled, Malfoy stepped through the gate, then followed Harry down the garden path to the cottage. Inside, Harry got him a glass of Knotgrass Mead and sat down on the big chair.

Malfoy stood looking around, about as uncomfortable as Harry had ever seen him. But Harry had seen him worse than uncomfortable, had seen him cowering and crying, and Harry found this strangely soothing.

“You can sit down,” Harry told him, “if you want.”

“Your politeness, as always, astonishes me.” Malfoy looked around, his lip curling. “How long do you plan to stay here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you can’t always be a hermit. Even one who visits people.”

Harry wanted to touch his scar, and stopped himself. “Why not?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t love being famous.”

Harry blinked. “Do people who love being famous usually do everything they can not to be found?”

“Whatever. No doubt you just did it for the attention.”

Harry smiled. “Where should I be living instead?”

Malfoy shrugged. “How should I know? Get a flat.”

“A flat?”

“People live in them, Potter. You find them in towns, where there are _other people_.”

Harry’s mouth twitched.

“Then, once you've got somewhere respectable, you find yourself an occupation.”

“An occupation?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, irritably. “Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

“What do you do?”

Malfoy looked surprised, then annoyed again. “I told you. I work for Granger. Don’t you know what she does?”

“Er,” said Harry. “She drafts legislation.”

“Merlin.” For a moment Malfoy looked very put-upon, then he waved his hand dismissively. “For your information, your erstwhile girlfriend is head of the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

“I knew that, actually.” Harry ignored the 'girlfriend' jibe.

“Good on you. Can you spell her name?”

“Even that,” Harry said, and grinned unabashedly.

“Lord save us.” Malfoy rolled his eyes. “I liaise with the International Court of Magical Creature Law, specifically.”

“How did you get into that?”

“By means of a very long story that wouldn’t interest you,” Malfoy said, pursing his lips. He had relaxed somewhat, which meant leaning back and crossing his legs, ankle to his knee. He had bony ankles, too.

Pulling his eyes away from Malfoy’s socks, Harry said, “Try me.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes at him. “I put in an application. I was qualified so they accepted me. One day I was reading through a bill and noticed that it violated international law. I pointed it out to Granger. She pushed it and got promoted. I did too.”

“That’s not a long story,” Harry pointed out.

“I shortened it for your tiny brain.”

“Come off it, Malfoy.”

Malfoy gestured wildly. “What do you want me to say? You want to hear how I was a clerk shut up in a cupboard and ignored for two years, that I worked my fingers to the bone just to find something that would make someone notice me? Do you want to hear how I groveled to Granger? Do you want to hear about how if she hadn’t sponsored me, no one would have given a toss for a former Death Eater?” The color was high in Malfoy’s face. His eyes were bright.

“No.” Harry raised his brows. “I’m just making conversation.”

Malfoy gave an ugly little laugh. “Excellent. Take the sordid details of my life and make them into idle small talk, how exquisitely well-mannered.”

“I’m not making fun of you.”

“Really?” Malfoy said sarcastically. “Then what are you trying to do?”

Harry resisted the urge to touch his scar, and looked away instead. “Be human.”

“I—oh.” Malfoy had narrow, slender shoulders, but Harry was used to the way that he tried to square them up, setting them as though he could make himself bigger. Now they sagged; Malfoy deflated, and suddenly he looked tired.

“Well,” Malfoy began again, and visibly recouped. Up the shoulders came, square they set, so much like a soldier gathering his courage that Malfoy somehow looked brittle. He gave a small tight smile that held no mirth at all and was obviously forced. “I see. That’s very . . . valiant of you. I rather expected you to expend such efforts on Granger and Weasel and such. You’ll pardon me if—if—” He seemed to grope for words.

“I guess us having a normal conversation isn’t very normal.”

“Just so. That’s it exactly. You’ve hit the nail on the—” Seeming to realize he was babbling, Malfoy stopped himself by swallowing. “I didn’t come here to be friends,” he said suddenly.

“Huh?”

“It wasn’t an attempt to begin again, with you.” Malfoy waved a vague hand. “What I said about beginnings, it wasn’t because I once—” Malfoy stopped himself again. “What’s done is done. We were never friends, Potter.”

Harry was scowling. “You mean that story about Parkinson and the Czech Republic?”

“Oh good,” Malfoy said. “You were listening. I came because I thought I could do something right for once. Granger was in a strop and you were sulking in a corner, and everyone still talks about you as though you’re the second coming of Merlin, except I know that you’re not. I’m the only one who knows, and I thought that if someone talked to you as though you were a human being you might—maybe you could act like one.”

Harry gritted his teeth and looked away. “I’m trying.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, still sounding agitated. “I just didn’t think you would try to act like a human being to me.”

Harry barked a laugh. “Is that all?”

Malfoy bristled. “Is what all?”

“Malfoy. You’re not special either, you know.”

Malfoy looked shocked. Then he masked his expression, an odd sort of thing to see, just like the setting of his shoulders. When he spoke, however, he sounded merely annoyed. “I’m special, Potter. I’m a special unique snowflake. You will note that I, however, am not the one hermiting in a hovel as though my specialness somehow exonerates me from living life.”

“Alright,” Harry said, and smirked again.

Disconcerted, Malfoy moved away and pretended to look at the bookshelves. He coughed politely, and eventually asked, “How do you occupy your time here, anyway?” His voice was a note less confident than usual.

“Small talk?” Harry asked.

“We can fling insults if you’d rather,” Malfoy snapped.

“No, that’s okay,” Harry said, and smiled again. Malfoy looked distinctly uncomfortable, staying rather close to the bookshelves, as though they might protect him. “I've done a lot of reading.”

Malfoy looked as though he were fighting a smart remark. Instead he only said, “You never struck me as a bookish type.”

“It’s dead boring,” Harry agreed. “I’ve also been trying to get better at potions brewing, and wandless casting. That sort of thing.”

“You cheated in sixth year,” Malfoy said. “I heard about it.”

“You cheated all the time,” Harry pointed out mildly.

“I did, rather,” Malfoy said smugly. He seemed pleased Harry had noticed.

“See,” Harry said. “This isn’t so bad.”

Malfoy looked like he was warring with himself again. At last, with effort, he managed, “I don’t suppose it is.” A wrinkle appeared in his forehead when he frowned thoughtfully, which he was doing now. His hands were in his pockets, making him look at ease despite the frown, and his shoulders sloped naturally.

Malfoy was the first person ever to be in the cottage besides himself, Harry realized suddenly. Harry had built the cottage, built it all himself with magic. The terrifying part was that it had not been hard. But here was Malfoy with his hands in his pockets, reading the titles of books and frowning in that thoughtful way. He could almost be a normal person, and Harry could almost be normal too here with him, as though they merely were acquaintances having a normal conversation. It was easier than with Ron and Hermione. It was easier than anything.

“What do I do after I get a job?” Harry asked suddenly.

“Hmm?” Malfoy murmured, and turned toward him again.

“You said I have to get a flat, then a job. After that?”

Malfoy’s eyes rounded in surprise, and then the mask returned. “Everyone knows that one,” he said lightly, turning back to the books. “Marry the girl of your dreams, have three children, name them after your father or your father’s father or better yet, your great-uncle. Buy a house and send the squealing brats to Hogwarts, and live happily ever after.”

“Oh,” said Harry.

“Cheer up,” Malfoy said, smirking slowly. “Maybe for your midlife crisis you can buy a fancy new broom.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“Hmm?”

“Living happily ever after?”

Malfoy’s gaze drifted down. His eyelashes looked silver in this light. “Naturally,” he murmured. “That’s how the story ends, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Harry told him honestly.

“Mmm,” Malfoy said again, seeming to think that low drawled hum as good as words. “It’s what we’re all supposed to be doing, anyway,” he said after a time. “With the Dark Lord gone, there’s nothing to stand in our way; isn’t that so? We should all be living happily ever after.” His tone was light and ironic; he had a strange smile playing about one side of his mouth that suggested amusement, but not particularly happiness.

“Are you happy?” Harry surprised himself by asking.

Malfoy turned away again. “I’ve told you. I’m perfectly content.”

Harry looked at Malfoy's back, the slim figure that held itself so tall, those shoulders, the minute tightness that spoke of Malfoy squaring up again. “So you said,” Harry agreed.

“I had better go,” Malfoy said, turning around again.

“Alright.” Harry could not read his expression. He followed Malfoy to the door, where Malfoy paused.

“Thank you, Potter.” Malfoy sounded more stilted than ever. “This has been . . .”

“Nice?” Harry suggested.

The line appeared beside Malfoy’s mouth, the precursor to the smile, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “I do hope you won’t get carried away.”

Harry smiled. “We could do it again.”

The line deepened. “See what I mean.”

“Gosh, Malfoy. No need to sound so enthusiastic.”

A smile was definitely playing at Malfoy's lips. “Whatever do you mean? I’m near to giddy.”

“See you,” said Harry.

“You should be so lucky,” said Malfoy, and went out into the night.

*

Harry spent the next Thursday with Ron and Hermione, and the next, and the next.

Hermione was helping him institute routines. The appointments she helped him arrange generally only lasted a short period of time, but he had to do them regularly: things like going with her to the Tesco just by her and Ron’s flat, things like going out to Diagon Alley for the first time since he’d found Chimera Downs. Somehow, she seemed to understand how much everything exhausted him, how much control it took. With her help, he knew that he could get away as soon as he felt frayed; he also knew he had to come back.

Hermione was very good at helping him to do normal things, but it was Ron who was better at helping him to be normal. They went out for drinks once, then again.

The next time, Ron invited Neville. The time after that it was George. Ron kept inviting people. At first, Harry thought maybe Ron didn't realize how difficult it was for him to be around people, even those he cared about—especially those he cared about—but Ron never invited more than one person at a time. And he was always there.

Harry thought he helped Ron, too, even if he wasn’t sure how. They talked about the times Ron had saved him, and the Quidditch matches he'd helped win, and that time Malfoy was a ferret, and it made things better.

“I can’t always . . .” Ron pressed his lips together, his hands clenched futilely. “Sometimes I feel like I can’t just do anything right. Like I just have to get away.”

Things were going so well that Harry was able to lift a slow brow and say, “I know the feeling.”

Ron laughed a little. “Sorry.”

Harry looked down. “Don’t be.”

“I fucked it up,” Ron said. “I still think of it, sometimes. The way I ran from you and Hermione, and you were both alone.”

“You pulled me out of a freezing lake,” Harry pointed out.

“But I can’t always . . . . Look. You’re not in a freezing lake.”

Harry blinked, not because he needed to. Sometimes he thought he needed to less and less, when his eyes went hot this way. He did it to cool down. He did it because he knew it was creepy when he didn’t. “I don’t need saving,” he said, keeping his voice very steady.

Ron scowled, took a sip of his mead, and said, “Whatever it is, mate. I’m going to be there. It’s just Hermione, she’s so . . . The thing is, Hermione’s perfect. She actually really is. What am I supposed to do with that?”

They were over a little hurdle, and Harry allowed himself a very dry half smile. “You’re not so bad.”

Ron laughed. “Thanks.” He took another swig, and then looked horrified. “But a father? Me?”

It was going to be alright, Harry realized. It was really going to be alright, because he could do this now.


	2. Chapter 2

A couple of nights a week, Malfoy came to Chimera Downs.

He came around the same time, never on a Thursday. The light at first was always gold, and then it changed to pink. Color began to turn at last in the single sycamore on the rise, and Draco Malfoy kept on coming down.

When he came the grass and weeds swayed around his legs and moved like waves in a good breeze: Malfoy in the midst of sea. Malfoy came in the way of ships to a deserted island. They came rich; they came easy. They never came to save anyone; they just appeared there, as if in passing, passing by. A castaway had always just learned to survive at terrible cost by the time he first saw a sail.

Several days after the first time Malfoy came inside the cottage for drinks, it showered lightly in the mid-afternoon. That night, Malfoy came again; the grass was wet as though with dew, and the stalks brushed and broke by Malfoy as he strode. When he got to the gate, the knees of his trousers were marked with grass and water, and he smelled like rain. Crickets sang in the coming night.

At the fence, he put a hand on the gate, not as though to open it, but as though he’d walked the whole way because this was the most comfortable place in the world to lean. He looked up at the cottage thoughtfully, until Harry opened the door and stepped outside.

“Want to come in?” he asked Malfoy. The light in the cottage was yellow, and spilled in a square out into twilight.

“I was thinking about it,” said Malfoy, and didn’t move. His hand still was languid over the gate.

“What were you thinking?” Harry asked.

“Why I should bother, really.” Malfoy’s voice was lazy, light.

“You’re already here,” Harry pointed out.

“No. I’ve only just come to the gate.”

“Why stop there?” Harry asked.

Malfoy lifted the latch and pushed open the gate in a fluid movement, then came up the path to the cottage.

Everything was easier, because it was Malfoy, but it was still difficult enough. Harry tried to rack his brain for the things that normal people did. Once Malfoy was in the living room again, he asked, “How are you?”

Malfoy gave him the strangest look, as though the question were in a foreign language, or else too strange to contemplate. He opened his mouth and then closed it. Then, in a stilted voice, “Never better. And yourself?”

“Fine,” said Harry. Because it was too quiet, he added, “I’ve seen Ron and Hermione again.”

Malfoy only nodded.

Harry tried to think of something else to say but Malfoy saved him. “I knew you had,” he said suddenly, “Granger being a book, you know. Sinclair owes you his life, I think.”

Harry almost winced, because people were always owing him their lives, except when he took them away, like Dolores Umbridge. But Malfoy winced instead, as if realizing what he'd said, and it made Harry feel better that Malfoy thought Harry’s head was already too big. “Er,” Harry said instead. “Who’s Sinclair?”

“Granger’s secretary. He’s not cut out for the job, I’m afraid. A very sensitive bloke. But he’ll never relinquish the position—he thinks it give him an edge on establishing the rights of Pygmy Puffs.”

Harry frowned. “Pygmy Puffs?”

“Oh yes,” Malfoy said, nodding. “He wants Puffs to be considered in the category of Being—as opposed to Beast, naturally. He thinks he’s got Granger’s ear.”

“Why would anyone want to think Pygmy Puffs are—”

“‘They’re an honest and noble race!’” exclaimed Malfoy, in a sing-song, passionate voice, and then switched to his impression of Hermione. “‘Honestly, they’ve the brains of peas. Now, house-elves on the other hand. Oppression! Slavery! Rights! Liberty! Wooly hats! Hop to it!’ And then Sinclair launches into the oppression of Pygmy Puffs, which is really very elegant and passionate, only it aggravates Granger no end.”

Harry found himself smiling. “The oppression of Pygmy Puffs, really?”

“As you know, Puffs were rather fierce in the wild.” Malfoy’s eyes widened as he saw that in fact, Harry had not known, and then he rolled his eyes. “Well they were,” he told him, and launched into a story about the marauding gangs of Puffs that lived in meadows in the eighteenth century, until someone had the bright idea of breeding them. “They started quite a racket.”

“Are you talking about black market Pygmy Puffs?” A new world was opening up to Harry.

Malfoy frowned. “Sort of. I meant they were their own racket, rather. Puffs are a tough bunch, very tooth and nail. Families stay quite closely knit together. Like gangs. Or . . . oh—” he waved a hand, “the mafia. So there was selling and trading among themselves, and certain forms of slavery.”

“Puff slavery.”

“Oh yes,” Malfoy said, still frowning. “Really, you would know all of this had our Care of Magical Creatures professor been in any way half decent.”

There was a silence. Harry waited to be angry; he waited to feel the clawing rise up in his chest. But there was nothing, waiting there, and Harry realized this—this petty schoolboy feud over Care of Magical Creatures and defending Hagrid and Hippogriffs against Malfoy—this was over. Harry didn’t have to worry about it any more, and there was nothing Malfoy could do. It didn’t matter any more.

So all that Harry said was, “Hagrid is my friend,” and he said it looking right at Malfoy, to see what Malfoy would say.

Malfoy looked away. “Yes,” he said finally. “I liked the subject.”

“What?”

“I liked the subject: care for magical creatures.”

“But you didn’t like Hagrid.”

Malfoy fidgeted. “I wanted more out of it. I’m not picking a fight. But you’re not going to tell me you liked the Flobberworms portion of the class.”

Harry’s mouth curled. “No. I’m not.”

There was a pause. “Puffs were as violent as unicorns, really, until it was all bred out of them,” Malfoy eventually said.

“You’re going to try to tell me unicorns are violent?”

“Seriously, Potter, do you know anything about magical creatures?” Malfoy said, sounding somewhat delighted, and proceeded to explain in detail the bloodlust of the unicorn.

In this way, Malfoy spoke of magical creatures, his coworkers, current events in the wizarding world, impressions of everyone around him, and Harry spoke carefully of slowly getting about in the world. It was as though they had never been anything other than acquaintances. They spoke of amusing things, topical things, stories that didn’t have to do with anything. They spoke of the past, but never of disputes then, never their hatred of each other. They never spoke of the war.

Malfoy wasn’t seeking to heal Harry, and that’s what made Harry so comfortable those nights, when the wards opened at Chimera Downs, and Draco Malfoy strolled down the rise.

Perhaps that was why Harry asked him what he did, one night several weeks later. Leaves were bleeding off the sycamore, Gryffindor red and gold, and the stars had started to come out by the time Malfoy was making his way down the slope. For a while, Saturn hovered low, a notch of bright orange light carved out of the western sky. Time seemed to stretch out forever, with Draco Malfoy coming down.

They were in the cottage, and Malfoy had had rather too much daisy wine, which he professed not to like. There were spots of pink on his cheekbones. It was because Malfoy was talking about werewolf negotiations that Harry thought of it, even though the werewolf of which Malfoy was speaking was a fetching witch who wore a collar all the time.

“It makes you wonder whether she has a lead,” Malfoy was saying. He seemed very interested in the prospect of her having a lead, the witch with the long black nails who wore black lipstick and a fork wrapped around her wrist for a bracelet, and sharp spikes on the black leather collar. Malfoy talked about those spikes, about the way she growled, about her wild hair—upon which he waxed most eloquent, more damning evidence than ever that he carried a bit of a torch for Hermione.

“And there’s a commune,” Malfoy was saying, “where they all live together. Werewolves are very tightly bonded, you know. A pack sticks together like a family. Or an orgy. You can only imagine what the nights are like. They’re always wearing mesh shirts.” Malfoy sounded wistful, as though he wanted to go to orgy bonding rituals wearing a mesh shirt.

That was what did it somehow, most inappropriately and oddly: Malfoy being wistful about mesh. “Would you come with me to visit Teddy?” Harry said abruptly, without knowing it was going to come out of his mouth.

“I—what?”

“Teddy,” Harry said again. “He’s Remus Lupin’s son.”

“I . . . know that.”

“And Nymphadora Tonks.” Harry still wasn’t sure why he was saying it, except that Malfoy made things easier, and he wanted things to be easier. “She was your cousin.”

“I know,” said Malfoy again, his voice blank.

“I need to visit him,” Harry explained. “What you said about godfathers—well, I need to visit him. But I can’t,” he added.

Malfoy looked frozen. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“Andromeda’s your aunt,” Harry said.

Malfoy seemed to take a moment finding his voice. “We haven’t—my family hasn’t spoken to her since . . . I don’t know her.”

“I don’t know him,” said Harry.

“Potter.” Malfoy frowned in distaste, as though the name tasted bad. “Why are you—why are you asking me?”

“Because you—” Harry stopped because he couldn’t think of anything to say, and Malfoy was staring at him like he was off his head. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. It was a stupid—”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I’ll go with you,” Malfoy said very quickly, all in a rush.

Harry stopped. “Really?”

“Yes,” Malfoy repeated irritably. “I said I would, didn’t I? Well?” he demanded, after a moment. “Are you really going to?”

“Yes,” Harry said slowly. “Are you really coming with me?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, and looked away.

Harry looked at the curve of his neck, and realized it really would be easier. Hermione or Ron might have gone with him, but they would be there as Harry’s support. They would be encouraging him the whole time, trying to get him to make conversation with Andromeda, or with Teddy. Malfoy would have a more difficult time of it than Harry, probably, and that made it so much easier.

“Thank you,” said Harry.

“Don’t mention it, Potter.” Malfoy looked back and his voice was suddenly very crisp. “If the . . . child has lycanthropy, I am in an expert position to deal with it. I will teach the child to have black nails, and wear forks about his wrist.”

“Er,” said Harry. “Are you sure Andromeda will approve?”

“She is a grandmother. Don’t you know grandmothers approve of everything?”

“They do?”

Malfoy waved a hand. “Of course. My grandmother Hazel allowed me to operate difficult Muggle machinery once. Completely to the dismay of my parents, I might add—it was very dangerous.”

*

The very dangerous Muggle machinery turned out to be a hand mixer. Malfoy told Harry this several days later as they met at the end of the lane to walk to Andromeda’s together. 

“What did you make with the hand mixer?” Harry asked, puzzled.

Malfoy beamed with pride. “It’s for killing weeds,” he explained. “Didn’t you know?”

“No,” Harry told him.

“Just leave all the difficult Muggle gadgetry to me,” Malfoy informed him airily. “I’m going to impress Andromeda with my vast array of knowledge.”

“About hand mixers?” Harry wanted to know. 

“Yes,” Malfoy said. “She will be charmed that I know about her husband’s culture. He was a Muggle, didn’t you know? ”

“I seem to remember hearing that,” Harry said, and rolled his eyes. Despite Malfoy's hesitation when Harry had first invited him, he now seemed eager for the meeting. He was all bright confidence, rather to the point of agitation. He kept speaking of how no doubt his wit would win over Andromeda, almost as though he were trying to convince himself. Harry found his incessant babble reaassuring.

“About you—er, wooing Andromeda,” Harry began, Malfoy’s words, not his.

Malfoy looked affronted. “I’m very charming.”

Harry looked at him doubtfully. “I’m sure you are. It’s just . . . I’ve never got on that well with her. Even before I . . .”

“Went crazy?”

Harry glared. “Yeah. I mean, we don’t argue. And she’s wonderful to Teddy. She’s just—you know, a little . . . cold.”

“She’s going to like me, Potter.” Malfoy drew himself up.

Harry was doubtful again. “Oh. Will she?”

“Yes. You see, I have a plan. A brilliant plan of masterful cunning.”

“Um,” said Harry. “Okay.”

Malfoy’s brilliant plan of masterful cunning turned out to be a plan to appear completely irresistible to anyone nearby him, except for Harry who knew it was just Malfoy and so was puzzled by its effectiveness.

Teddy was six now, and Harry had no idea what to do with a six-year-old, but Malfoy’s idea seemed to be that you talked to six-year-olds as though they were normal people, which they obviously weren’t. Malfoy was very serious with Teddy, nodding thoughtfully at what Teddy said. Harry found out later that most of what Teddy said was about spaceships. Malfoy made him all sorts of whimsical promises he could never keep, except that when Harry told Malfoy this Malfoy looked him and said, “I am perfectly fit for spaceflight, thank you.”

And then there was Andromeda, whom Malfoy complimented at every turn. He told her she had a lovely house, and a lovely grandson, and wasn’t it so unfortunate how Harry Potter was a crazy person, but you never knew with godfathers did you, and anyway Harry wasn’t being crazy now, wasn’t it nice.

“I wanted to bring him before,” Malfoy explained very earnestly, “but I had to make sure he wasn’t—you know—dangerous.” His voice lowered dramatically. “One has to think of the children, doesn’t one.”

“He didn’t bring me here,” Harry said, scowling.

“I don’t have him fully trained yet,” Malfoy told Andromeda apologetically.

“Teddy has been missing you,” Andromeda told Harry, her tone polite.

Harry was fairly certain Teddy didn’t remember who he was. “I had to go away,” Harry explained. “But I came back.”

“Short sentences help keep him in control,” Malfoy said helpfully.

Andromeda smiled faintly.

“But are you comfortable?” Malfoy said. “Perhaps you would like to take a turn about the room.”

“I’m fine,” said Andromeda, because this was the fifth time Malfoy had asked, but she was still smiling faintly.

“Have a chocolate,” said Malfoy, and that was the seventh time. He had brought the chocolates, no doubt as part of his cunning plan of masterfulness, or whatever. No doubt also part of the plan was to not tell Harry he was bringing Andromeda chocolates in order to make Harry look bad because he hadn’t brought anything.

“And I’m not dangerous,” Harry added, annoyed, because Andromeda actually was taking another chocolate, and the smile was growing deeper. Her smile was actually a little bit like Malfoy’s, with the line just on one side.

At Harry’s words, Andromeda raised her brows. “I’m glad to hear that, Harry,” she said in the calm, placid way she always addressed Harry.

Harry opened his mouth and then closed it, realizing what he had said. No doubt Malfoy had tricked him into saying it, but—he wasn’t dangerous.

Slowly, Harry looked at Teddy, who was playing with the chocolate frog Malfoy had also brought. Harry looked at him and thought of Remus, thought of Tonks. Harry looked and felt loss, and a fierce upswell of protectiveness and pain: Teddy’s parents killed in battle, this child left alone, the crying under the chair, the mist of King’s Cross.

The grass stood tall in the field, waved in a slight breeze. A sycamore stood on the rise, the sun swung low and full of gold like ripe and waiting fruit. Draco Malfoy walked down through the grass. There was no road.

Harry looked at Teddy and didn’t feel the claws.

“It’s true,” said Harry. “I won’t go away again.”

Andromeda tilted her head. “Teddy will be happy.”

Later, Harry tried to play with Teddy, who liked playing Space Aurors. 

It was only later Harry found out Space Aurors was all Malfoy’s idea.

They’d been playing Space Aurors a while when Harry went into the kitchen to get tin foil, and Malfoy and Andromeda were there. Malfoy was in the midst of talking in a low, solemn little voice, and stopped when Harry walked in the swinging door.

Malfoy looked strained, his mouth looking haggard with its thin lips and lines at the sides. When he turned to Harry his expression went tight as though drawn closed, and he swallowed hard.

Andromeda very politely got Harry tin foil, and then just as politely appeared to think Harry should leave. Harry edged out, and waited for a moment just beyond the door.

“I wish I had known her,” Malfoy went on saying. “Mum never wanted it this way. If want you to know that I’m so s—”

Harry heard Teddy call out and hurriedly moved away.

Later, both Malfoy and Andromeda came out of the kitchen. Andromeda looked just as smooth and empty as ever. Malfoy’s face was shining as though he had just won the House Cup.

Harry had never seen that smile, not directed at him anyway. The line was deep at the side of Malfoy’s mouth, just like a dimple, and his whole face went with it easily, smiling too.

Harry had to catch his breath.

“I told you I had a brilliant plan,” Malfoy said later. They were back at Chimera Downs.

“A brilliant plan to suck up.” Harry frowned.

“You’re just jealous,” Malfoy said, smirking.

Harry frowned more deeply. “Of what?”

“Teddy likes me better,” Malfoy said, and beamed.

“I wasn’t aware you were even with him all that much.”

Malfoy preened. “I have a way with children. And werewolves. I’m practically an animal expert.”

“Children aren’t animals.” Harry glowered.

“How could you even think such a thing,” Malfoy said, and patted him like a pet.

Harry just looked at him. “I think you shouldn’t come here any more,” he said suddenly.

Something flashed across Malfoy’s face, and then his shoulders squared. He spoke with casual indifference. “I was just thinking the same thing. Well, Potter. Thank you for the visit to my aunt’s. Next time I’ll be sure to leave you behind.”

“Ron and I go out to a pub,” Harry went on, mostly ignoring Malfoy’s snide tone.

“How very fine for you.” His face was mostly white, and Harry regretted having said it in a backwards way. He hadn’t meant to, when Malfoy had been smiling like that just a moment before, and he had looked so happy in a way that Harry had never seen him. He’d never really thought about Malfoy being happy before, but Harry had enjoyed that look, and the way it made him feel happy, too. “Let me by,” said Malfoy coldly, because Harry was standing in front of the door.

“I mean, you and I should do it some time,” Harry said. “Go to a pub, I mean.”

Malfoy looked swiftly at him, and then his eyes slid away. “Let me by,” he said again.

“Don’t be a git, Malfoy,” Harry said.

“I just remembered something I have to do at home, that’s all,” Malfoy said, still standing there and looking strangely lost.

“I’m trying to—I’m trying to make it normal,” Harry explained. His chest was tightening.

Malfoy snorted.

“I mean,” Harry said, “go out more. Live a life. That’s what you said.” Seeing Teddy had been such a big step, and it had gone so well.

Harry tried to think of the field.

“Of course you are. I’m just trying to go home.” Malfoy’s shoulders finally relaxed. He lingered there, but no longer tried to get by, both of them standing in the hallway, encased in semi-darkness. When Malfoy spoke again his voice was careless. “Of course we’ll go to the pub. Just like you and Ronald Weasley. Just don’t choose a place that’s dirty,” he added.

“Good,” Harry said.

Malfoy shrugged. “Fine.”

Harry thought of something else. “When?”

Malfoy hitched a shoulder. “Whenever you like, Potter. I am at your disposal.” He paused. “Now will you let me go?”

“What?” Harry said. “Oh,” and moved away from the door.

Just when Malfoy was passing by, right at the door, he turned toward Harry. He was rather close, and the light still was dim. “I did mean it about the visit to my aunt’s,” he said suddenly. “Thank you.” His voice was soft. “It was great.”

Then he stepped out into the night, and Harry thought he just might make it.

*

In the next two months, Harry didn’t get a flat. He didn’t get a job either. He didn’t really have to worry about money at this point; his parents and Sirius had left him lots, and he hadn’t used much of his savings from his time with the Aurors.

Instead Harry took things slowly, but he began to do more and more, now without Ron and Hermione’s help. He did things like going to the shop, and meeting Neville for lunch, and seeing one of Luna’s naturalist art shows, and visiting Teddy. He did things like walking down Diagon Alley without the monster in his chest when people wanted to stop and snap pictures of him, things like meeting Ron and Hermione by the Ministry for lunch.

They went to a cafe in Muggle London, and Hermione talked about her job, and Ron groused about George’s latest experiments. Harry ate his sandwich and drank his juice and eventually asked Hermione, “Do you still work with Draco Malfoy?”

It had been a while since the last time Harry had seen him. After a week had gone by without Malfoy coming down, Harry had begun to wonder where he was. Then he had remembered that he had told Malfoy he shouldn’t come, and that they were going to meet instead, the way that friends sometimes went out together, except that he and Malfoy weren’t exactly friends. 

Maybe Malfoy was expecting that Harry would owl, or at least be the one who planned it. The problem was, Harry felt like he didn’t know how to do it. When he went out with Ron they just did, and Ron was there, and asked him to hang out; that was all. It had been too long since Harry had been with people, and when Harry thought about it, even before then, Harry had just kept the friends he’d always had. He’d seen them by rote, and arranged the next meeting by rote, and didn’t owl people to meet him at pubs, because he hadn’t needed to.

Even in those dark days, after Harry had quit the Aurors and his friends, before he came to Chimera Downs, Harry hadn’t needed to ask for company.

Chimera Downs was the place Harry went to in his mind, when everything was too much and he felt that he would explode with all the force of it, the way he had felt just before Dolores Umbridge. Chimera Downs was safe, because it was secret; no one would ever find him there and Harry would never hurt them there. Chimera Downs was the place where he could be alone.

But Malfoy had found him there. He could have ruined everything, but instead, Malfoy became a part of it. When Harry thought of the field, there was green grass, and a hill rolled gently down. There was no road. Malfoy walked down the slope, his white shirt open at the throat. The light was always gold.

In the field, Malfoy wasn’t good and he wasn’t bad. He just was there, like the crickets, and the smell of woodsmoke. 

When Harry asked Hermione whether she still worked with Malfoy, he was thinking this, about the field, and about being normal. Malfoy had helped him there. Harry could show him he was a human being, after all.

Hermione looked surprised. “Sure,” she said.

“He told me a little bit about it,” Harry said.

“You’ve seen him?” Ron wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah.” Harry didn’t like lying to his friends. After he quit the Aurors and all the other things, he had lied to them a lot. Still, he didn’t want to tell them about the field, so he didn’t say anything more.

“That’s okay, Harry,” Hermione said quickly. 

“I was just . . . wondering what it was like, is all,” Harry said. “Working with Malfoy.”

Hermione seemed to like him, rather.

“Gag me,” said Ron.

“He’s interesting,” Hermione insisted.

“When was Malfoy ever interesting?” Ron demanded.

“There was sixth year,” Harry said blandly.

Ron and Hermione stared at him.

“Well,” said Harry, “he was.”

Ron grunted. “At least Lucius Malfoy is out of our hair.”

Harry realized that Malfoy had come to Chimera Downs over half a dozen times, and they had never once talked about his parents. “What’s Lucius doing, then?” he asked, surprised.

“Nothing, so far as anyone knows,” Ron said. “Supposedly the Aurors have a trace on him, but he never does anything. They live up north, somewhere in Yorkshire.”

“What about the Manor?” Harry asked, brow furrowing.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione huffed. “Didn’t you know? That was auctioned off years ago.”

“Yeah,” Ron put in. “And Narcissa Malfoy has a job.”

Harry frowned. “What does Malfoy think of that?”

Hermione shrugged. “He doesn’t really talk about it.” Hermione frowned. “Come to think of it, he doesn’t talk about anything like that. Not his parents. Not the war.”

Better that way, Harry thought, and the conversation moved on to other things.

What Hermione said was true. Malfoy didn’t talk about himself—he talked about work, and Pygmy Puffs, and Sinclair and a million things, but he had never mentioned the trace on Lucius, the Manor, Narcissa’s job.

Harry wondered why Malfoy had even started coming to Chimera Downs in the first place. He had said he didn't want to be Harry Potter’s friend. Maybe he really had just wanted to prove that Harry wasn’t any better than anyone else. Maybe he had just wanted to put an old childhood rivalry to rest.

Malfoy always had liked projects, especially projects that involved making Harry’s life harder. Whatever his mission, Malfoy must have accomplished it. He could not doubt that he had got Harry to listen to him. Perhaps now he was done, he was no longer interested. Maybe if Harry had given Draco a gold star at Hogwarts, slapped him on the back and for no reason and without reference to anything said, “You were right,” they could’ve saved themselves years of animosity.

Ron had to get back to the shop, and Hermione had to get back to the Ministry. Harry went with her, and asked Hermione where Malfoy’s desk was.

She hesitated. “You should know that Malfoy’s grown up,” she warned. “He’s a highly functioning part of this office. He’s actually really important to what I do here.”

Scowling, Harry muttered, “I’m not the one who slapped him that time.”

“I just mean—” Hermione looked anxious—“you can ignore half of what he says, really.”

“What?” Harry asked, surprised.

“If he baits you,” she explained. “He’s so high-strung, and he can be quite . . . nervous around . . . well, people. But he’s so sweet once you get to know him,” she added quickly.

“Sweet,” Harry repeated, not comprehending.

“He’s so very thoughtful. And earnest. And Harry—he tries really really hard.”

Harry had never noticed Malfoy being very thoughtful, but told Hermione he would keep it in mind. Still looking anxious, she pointed him over to Malfoy’s desk. The cubicles were separated by partitions, and Malfoy’s had a desk piled high with all variety of papers and some strange objects, with a blond head bent close over something.

“It’s not very glamorous,” Harry said.

Malfoy stilled for a moment, but by the time he turned around, he did not look startled. He looked entirely blank. “Au contraire,” Malfoy said, sounding flippant. “Just now I am negotiating a contract with a society of werewolves, who wish to be recognized officially as werewolves rather than wizards.”

“Um,” Harry said. “Contract negotiations? Still don’t sound glamorous.”

“Oh.” Malfoy’s shoulders slumped. “That’s just because you’re a peon.”

Harry looked at him for a while. “Want some coffee?”

For some reason, this made Malfoy smirk. “No thank you, Potter. Hot chocolate. And whipped cream, with the nutmeg sprinkled on top, and one of those little straws.”

Harry blinked. “I meant, er. For you to go out for coffee. With me.”

“Huh.” Malfoy’s shoulders straightened back a little. He swiveled back around in his chair to face his desk. “I don’t know. I’m very busy, you see. Being glamorous. This is a very high profile professional career. No rest for the wicked and extraordinarily talented.”

“Oh.” Harry remembered what he had thought about being Malfoy’s project, and wondered again why Malfoy had come to Chimera Downs at all. “You said we could,” he pointed out.

“Mmm,” Malfoy said, very intent on his papers. “I suppose I did. That was then; this is now.”

“Right,” Harry said. He wondered if this was Malfoy’s way of saying he’d done at Chimera Downs what he’d come to do. Maybe it was Malfoy’s way of saying he should have come sooner. Maybe it was Malfoy’s way of being a prat. Harry turned around and walked away. 

Harry was at the door to the office room when Malfoy jogged up behind him, grabbing his wrist to stop him.

“What?” said Harry.

Malfoy let him go, not quite meeting his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go for coffee.”

Harry’s brow wrinkled. “Thought you were busy.”

“I am,” Malfoy said defensively.

“Look, we don’t have to.”

Malfoy rubbed his arm. “If you don’t want to,” he began, and stopped, as though it were a complete sentence.

Harry still frowned, puzzled. “I want to.”

The line showed at the side of Malfoy’s mouth. He still wasn’t quite meeting Harry’s eyes. “Well then,” he murmured, and didn’t finish again.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Do you want to?”

“Hmm?” Malfoy pretended to be distracted, then looked up. “What? Oh. Yes, I suppose.”

“You suppose,” Harry repeated.

“Yes. Well, I know you want to so much.” The smile was quirking at the corner of Malfoy’s mouth now.

“I want to so much,” Harry repeated again, incredulously.

“Yes,” Malfoy said again. He smiled then, not the smile he’d worn after Andromeda’s; this one was closed-lipped and still absent, as though he was thinking of something else. “It’s going to be grand. When?”

Harry looked at Malfoy’s smile, and said, “How about right now?”

Malfoy looked scandalized. “I’m at work.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Maybe afterwards, then.”

For a flash, Malfoy looked uncertain. “Well, I have . . . appointments. You know. So much to—” He looked at Harry, who was frowning at him. “Yes,” said Malfoy suddenly. “Alright. Tonight. This very evening. Unto the breach! As they say, and that rot.”

“Who says that?” Harry asked, nose wrinkling.

“Everyone,” Malfoy said airily. “It’s all the rage; you know how these things are.”

“No.”

“Oh.” Malfoy waved a hand hazily. He still wore a strange smile. “Well, things are that way. Trust me. I know things.” 

“You do,” said Harry.

“Mm-hm.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Okay. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Harry,” Malfoy said.

Harry stopped. “Yeah?”

“Thanks.” Then Malfoy shoved his hands in his pockets and turned away, walking back down the corridor filled with cubes.

*

They went to a pub instead of out for coffee. Malfoy chattered about the werewolf negotiations, fluently and agitatedly, just as though he had raw nerves and the endless noise was soothing to them, the way it was to Harry. “When you have the talk with Teddy, leave all the difficult werewolf bits to me,” he was saying. “I am a supreme negotiator, now.”

“What talk with Teddy?”

“Honestly, Potter.” The line appeared by Malfoy’s mouth, and his eyes danced. “I could deal with any werewolf now,” Malfoy went on in that heedless, cocky way of his he used when nothing at all mattered. “I would even win over Professor Lupin.”

“Er,” said Harry again. “Did you ever try to win over Lupin?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone tried to win over Lupin.”

Harry stared at him. “Really?”

Malfoy tinged pink, but lifted his chin. “He was everyone’s favorite. Didn’t you know that? Except for Snape.”

“Snape wasn’t anyone’s favorite.”

“Oh yes he was,” Malfoy said and beamed. “Snape was bloody brilliant.” 

“He was that, I guess,” Harry agreed.

Malfoy’s positively dreamy look melted away into a half-hearted sneer. “Well, of course you never could see past your own nose, being in sodding Gryffindor.”

“Dumbledore said Snape should have been in Gryffindor.”

Shock momentarily passed over Malfoy’s face, and then he masked his expression. “Yes, he would say that,” Malfoy said, very low.

Harry thought of telling Malfoy what had happened with Snape, and didn’t. “I’m sure you’re the werewolf negotiations expert,” he reassured Malfoy instead.

Malfoy wore a little frown, looking down at the table. “What’re you going to do?” he asked abruptly, looking up.

“Do?” Harry repeated. “About the werewolves?” He did know that he didn’t want to talk about Snape or Dumbledore. 

“I don’t know, maybe.” Malfoy put his elbows on the table. “I meant for your occupation. Don’t you remember how I told you to get a job?”

“Oh. That. Well, I hadn’t really . . .” 

Malfoy dropped his head into his hands. “You’re hopeless. I think I feel a migraine coming on.”

“I’m just not sure I’m ready for—”

“No, really, I see little lights in front of my eyes. I think I need to go home.”

“Er.”

“Not because of the migraine, of course,” Malfoy explained, looking up and speaking conversationally. “No. Of course the reason I must go home immediately, right this second, is because you think the world is your oyster and you can just lie about and gaze at it.” He pursed his lips, tilting his head. “Or you think you can crawl into a crab shell and off yourself. I’m not sure which. I’m sure it has an ocean theme, though.”

“I’m supposed to decide right now?”

“You’re supposed to have been thinking about it. It’s your life. Your life. Two words I’m sure you don’t understand. I’m going now.”

“Don’t.” Harry pulled him back into the booth. 

“Help,” Draco cried. “I’m being molested!”

“I’ve thought about it,” Harry said.

“About molesting me?” Malfoy perked up.

“Will you shut up? I’ve been thinking, kind of, of doing kind of like Lockhart.”

“Help!” Malfoy struggled again. “I’m being molested by someone whose life’s aspiration is to be a madman. He might be mad already. In fact,” Malfoy continued conversationally, “You already are. You have a kind of crazed look about the whites of your eyes.”

“I do?”

“So,” Malfoy continued blithely, at last extricating himself in order to sit across from Harry again. “Another fan fallen victim to the charms of Gorgeous Gilderoy. Just tell me one thing. Was it the golden mane?”

“What? No. Ew. Gorgeous Gilderoy?”

“We can forget I said that,” Malfoy said hastily.

Harry released a noisy breath, running a hand through his hair. “What I meant was, he . . . did a lot of stuff. Saw a lot of places, did a lot of things. I guess he might’ve had jobs, but he moved around a lot. It wasn’t like he was an Auror or anything.”

“No, only a world famous author. You’re not going to write, are you? Help,” Malfoy began, with more panic than before, “I’m being molested by a _writer_.”

“I’m not molesting you.”

“Any more. I still can’t believe you want to model your life on the puffed-up, self-important, long-haired incompetent.”

Harry thought about saying something about Lucius Malfoy. Then he looked again at Malfoy, whose face was a little pink from his daisy wine and interest and possibly getting molested. His lips were twitching. Harry decided to shut up about Lucius for good. 

“It’s like this,” Harry said instead. “Lockhart claimed to do a million things. I know he didn’t do them actually, but what if someone could? Travel that much, I mean, and learn that much, and be involved in so many things? And there’s Dumbledore; he did a dozen times as much and he actually _did_ the things he claimed to. He was a professor at Hogwarts, but he also worked on alchemy, and started the Order of the Phoenix, and he was the Supreme Mugwump, and—well, all sorts of things.” Harry traced lines in the condensation on the table. “You know, after he died, at his funeral . . .”

He saw Malfoy flinch, and that was when Harry realized that for the first time, he’d actually _forgotten_. He looked again at Malfoy, at the pink quickly fading from his cheeks. Harry knew that he would never shut up about Dumbledore for good; Dumbledore was too important and too much of a part of Harry’s life. But Harry also knew that somewhere he’d stopped blaming Malfoy, or forgiven him.

Harry repeated abruptly, “After he died. At his funeral. The merpeople, they mourned him too. And I started thinking about how he could talk to them, and knew their language. And I think that without . . . talking to mermaids, and researching dragons' blood, and defeating Grindelwald, and all those things, he couldn’t have been . . . the man he was.” Harry frowned. “I don’t want to be Dumbledore, but—”

“Good.”

Harry grimaced. “He meant well.”

Malfoy twirled his daisy wine in his glass. “So, you don’t want to be Dumbledore,” he led on.

“I want to . . . make a difference. I don’t think I’m cut out for the Aurors; it’s too . . . rigid.”

“I don’t understand.” Malfoy batted his lashes rapidly. “Harry Potter isn’t good at following the rules? Are we talking about the same Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived? The hero? The savior? The Golden Warrior Of—”

Harry kicked him under the table, and smiled. It was nice. It was really nice, actually, having someone make fun of him. It was nice and exactly what he wanted, because Harry could not have talked to Ron like this; he couldn’t talk to Hermione like this. Harry felt like he could say whatever he wanted, and Malfoy would still just say the same thing. He would insult him or laugh at him or make a joke of it, but his mouth would twitch in that way he had, and everything would be okay.

“You were saying?” Malfoy said politely, after kicking him back. 

Harry thought about it. “When I really think about what I want to do . . . I think about hearing what the mermaids have to say.”

“Ah ha!” Malfoy’s mouth wasn’t just twitching. He was grinning, and there was a triumphant gleam in his eye. 

“What?” Harry said suspiciously.

“I knew you had a sea theme.”

*

Harry went to the pub every once in a while with Malfoy—nearly once or twice a week, in fact, the way you sometimes did with friends.

Malfoy was interesting the way Hermione was interesting, but also he was more blunt, and did impressions, and was a lot less understanding of other people. His voice was nice the way Hermione’s was, but his hair was nothing like hers, and his eyes, and his smile. Harry found himself looking at the way that Malfoy looked, all the little details collected to put in that picture, the one with the rolling green, and soft breezes, the one where there was no road. He looked at Malfoy and it was almost like looking at something new; there were so many things he had never seen.

Harry also saw more of Hermione and Ron, not just on Thursdays. He saw more of Teddy too. Teddy called him Uncle Harry, and Harry taught him to ride a broom. They came in from out of doors red-faced and laughing, and drank super-food smoothies.

Andromeda was still stilted and yet very kind, and neither of those things were quite so difficult any more. Sometimes she came out riding too. She was a bit of a fitness junkie, and the smoothies were brewed with energy boosters, and she encouraged Harry to try a brand new diet composed exclusively of legumes. Apparently the chocolates had not really endeared Malfoy to her at all, but Andromeda forgave Malfoy for it anyway, and Harry took Teddy frequently out for ice cream without Andromeda finding out.

“You’ll spoil him,” Malfoy said.

“But he likes it,” said Harry.

“You’ll ruin his health.” Most likely Malfoy was worried Harry would get one over on him, in which case Teddy might start liking Harry better.

“Every once in a while can’t hurt,” said Harry.

“I’ll tell my aunt,” Malfoy said, as a last resort.

“I’ll tell her about the banana split,” Harry threatened.

Malfoy looked hunted. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he whispered, so they both took Teddy out for ice cream.

Teddy got the best end of the deal.

Meanwhile, Hermione approached her due date. Harry felt the baby kick, and he was not afraid any more. When Hugo was born, Harry was made his godfather, too.

“Marvelous Granger trusts you, really, when you consider,” Malfoy drawled.

“Consider what?” Harry asked, scowling.

“The hot fudge sundaes,” Malfoy said.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. My lips are sealed.” Malfoy paused. “Can we introduce Ted to pie?” 

The first time Harry held Hugo, Harry thought of the green field.

There were rolling hills. There was no road. Malfoy walked down the slope. His cuffs were turned up to expose his wrists, and his wrists were bony.

Holding Hugo, Harry was trying not to think of Sirius, of babies, best friends, the betrayal of best friends, and the failure of best friends. Looking at the helpless lump of flesh, its flailing fists and bright eyes, made something large swell in Harry’s chest that could break its way out, burn its way down, destroy everyone and everything that could lay a hand on or harm this child.

“Harry just doesn’t like holding him,” Ron said. He was holding the baby proudly, among intermittent and skittish protests that he might drop him; his mum had done it with Percy and look at Percy now.

“Figures.” Hermione huffed so that her fringe fluffed up. “Men. You all hold him like he’s a Quaffle anyway.”

“Hey,” Ron said, protectively clutching the bundle. “I stopped George from using him for a Bludger!”

Harry felt like telling them their son was the Snitch because it was the most precious of all, and began to think that what Malfoy had been saying was right: Granger’s cooing was an infectious disease and you should only approach her in sterile, baby-free environments. The warm, content, over-sentimental glow should’ve been a comfort, but the way it twined in Harry’s heart with the monster in his chest made Harry wary whenever the baby was about.

Harry spent time with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill and Fleur, George, Charlie when he was in England. Harry even saw Percy, from time to time. He saw Ginny.

He just didn’t go to her wedding. 

Instead, Harry owled Malfoy, and stayed at Chimera Downs.

Malfoy appeared on the rise after stars were stippling the sky. He came down in darkness just like he used to do. His shirt was white, and when he got to the gate, his smile was a sail.

“I’ve brought wine,” Malfoy said. His voice was smooth and low.

“Come in,” Harry croaked.

Malfoy didn’t seem to expect Harry to talk. Instead he told more stories of Sinclair, of unicorns, of how Hermione was at work, of magical creatures Harry had never heard of.

“I thought Snorkacks didn’t exist,” Harry asked at one point.

“More fool you,” Malfoy said gently, and there was something strange about his smile.

It looked soft, that was it.

“Anyway, didn’t Lovegood talk about them? She was the expert,” Malfoy said.

“I thought Luna was cracked, half the time.”

Malfoy paused, his hand poised mid-air. “Thought she was your friend.”

“Oh. She is,” Harry said, and thought of friends. People he loved and wasn’t with; instead here he was with Draco Malfoy, because Ginny Weasley was getting married.

Harry thought of the field. The green grass, the slight breeze: there was no road down. And—and . . .

“I want to go outside,” Harry said, because he needed to see the field.

Malfoy went with him. They stood by the gate which wasn’t white, and looked up at the stars. Their breath puffed out in the cold winter air.

“The Blacks are all up there,” Malfoy said, after a while. “We have legends in the stars.”

Harry couldn’t see the field. He closed his eyes. “Malfoy—”

“Harry,” Malfoy said, and pressed their shoulders together. “Hush. It’s about family. How they’ll always be with you, even when they’re gone.”

There was a monster in Harry’s chest.

But Malfoy began to tell the story of Cassiopea, Cepheus, Andromeda and Cetus, Perseus and Pegasus. He talked non-stop, but this time it wasn’t agitated talking, the excited babble he sometimes used when secretly Harry suspected he might be nervous. Instead Malfoy’s voice was smooth and low.

It seemed to fill the field, which in the winter night was dead and silent, full of broken, frosted grass.

Harry closed his eyes and listened to that voice. The monster paced, and curled, took three turns inside his chest, and settled down to sleep.

Harry hugged Ginny that Christmas, and wanted to tell her that he would always love her no matter what, that there would always be a place in his heart for her. Then Ginny smiled at Dean, just a glance over Harry’s shoulder, and that place in Harry’s heart for her began to howl and he had to leave. But he came back for Boxing Day; Ginny forgave him and Dean even gave him the time of day. George was there with Angelina, Bill with Fleur and all their children, Percy even and Charlie, and Harry didn’t even feel intimidated by all the people.

In fact, he went out in public. He walked the streets and was maybe almost normal. In his mind was a field of green, and he was a man.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione was talking about something that had happened at work one day when Harry said, “Right. Malfoy told me about that.”

Both Hermione and Ron looked at him, and Harry wondered why he had said it. His friends still didn't know that Malfoy had come to Chimera Downs, or that Malfoy was the reason Harry had brought himself to leave, and try to have a normal life. Harry wasn’t keeping it a secret, exactly. He just wanted to try to keep the field on Chimera Downs as a separate place, a place no one knew about and no one could touch—except for Malfoy. 

Harry still couldn't explain why being with Malfoy was easier than being with people he loved. Malfoy, who had always aggravated him, was more peaceful than the people who made him happy.

“When did you talk to Draco?” Hermione asked politely.

“I’ve been seeing him,” said Harry.

“What d'you mean _seeing him_?” Ron asked, outraged.

“Just... you know, we hang out sometimes.”

Hermione looked blank. “I had no idea.”

Ron looked at Harry incredulously. Then he asked, hopefully, “When you say you hang out with him, do you mean you beat him up? Punch him in the face occasionally?”

“What? No, why would I?”

“I think it’s wonderful,” Hermione said suddenly.

“Because that would make sense,” Ron went on. “Do you at least kick him a little?”

“Not really.”

“Draco doesn’t get out much, you know,” Hermione went on.

“Because people might punch him in the face,” Ron pointed out, earning glares from both of them.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked Hermione.

“Well, Ron’s kind of right.” Harry scowled and started to interrupt, and she hastily added, “Not necessarily about the punching, but being a former Death Eater, Draco isn’t exactly popular.”

“So he doesn’t go out in public?” Harry asked, puzzled. Malfoy had never seemed afraid of the pubs they went to. He'd been awkward the first time Harry had invited him out, but Harry had just thought Malfoy had been deciding whether he could get over his schoolboy grudge long enough to have a drink with him in public.

“Oh, he goes out all the time,” Hermione explained. “But most people are—well, sometimes people aren’t very nice. Sometimes when it’s his turn to make a creature confiscation he has to have back-up.”

Ron snorted. “That's nothing new. Malfoy’s always had cronies.”

“But that’s just it. He doesn’t have anyone. It’s just that sometimes people are so hostile toward him that he needs reinforcements. And you even have to be careful who you send him with. Most people in the department like him, but if you’re sending him with someone from Records or even an Auror—well, Ron. You’ve heard me talk about it.” Hermione looked at her husband pointedly.

“If everyone in the department likes him so much, couldn't other people do the jobs that'll be dangerous for him?” Harry asked.

“He insists. I think he thinks he needs to prove himself.” She frowned as Ron scoffed loudly. “No, Ron, really, I've told you, he's changed. He's the best at what he does as well.” She sounded upset.

“Malfoy never told me,” Harry said to Hermione, feeling perplexed.

Hermione shrugged. “He’s a private person, I suppose. Like I told you before, he’s very sweet. Everyone likes him once they give him a chance but I think there are very few he would consider friends.”

Harry thought about that. It was true that for all Malfoy’s chatter, he didn’t share much. Harry had learned more about his situation, about his parents and his personal life, from a few short exchanges with Hermione than from Malfoy himself. He found it hard to imagine Malfoy without all the people he had surrounded himself with at Hogwarts. Ron had been right about that: Malfoy had rarely been without Crabbe and Goyle, and Parkinson had trailed after him like a puppy. More often than not he'd sat at the middle of a knot of Slytherins, the center of attention and in his element.

Malfoy was bright and talkative, just like he had been then. He had told Harry he was happy, and Harry had believed him without thought, because surely everyone but himself was happy.

_Selfish_ , said Malfoy's voice.

Harry was thinking this one night at the pub, while Malfoy babbled on about how crap the Chudley Cannons were. He never mentioned the Harpies when he was on a Quidditch rant, for which Harry was always grateful.

“Their Keeper!” Malfoy was saying, waving his hands about. “Is he on Muscle Max? Doesn’t he know that leeches your brain? Of course, he wouldn’t know if his brain has been leeched already. Which it probably has, considering their Left Beater.”

“Do you still play?” Harry said suddenly.

“What?” Malfoy’s hands tightened around his glass, which held a peculiar-looking concoction with a straw. “Of course,” he said, in a detached kind of way. “Former Death Eater versus Ministry. Guess who always wins.”

“You don’t, do you.”

“Who am I supposed to play with?” Malfoy asked irritably.

Harry shrugged. “Goyle? Zabini? I don’t know. All your little friends from school.”

“Zabini is in Montreal.”

“Why?”

Malfoy was getting more and more defensive. “Why do you care?”

Harry shrugged again. “I was just asking, Malfoy.”

“Well,” Malfoy said, looking ruffled, “don’t.”

“Don’t ask you about your friends?”

“I don’t ask you about yours,” Malfoy said pointedly.

Harry scowled. “Yes, you do.”

Malfoy looked scandalized. “As if I would ever.”

“I guess you don’t ask about Hermione and Ron,” Harry said. “But you already know about them.”

“Sadly.” Malfoy stirred his drink with the straw.

Impulsively, Harry said, “Want to come with me to Ron and Hermione's for dinner on Thursday?”

For a moment Malfoy looked stunned. He very quickly recovered, frowned, and looked down at his drink. He poked it unkindly. “Ha ha, very funny, Potter,” he said.

“I meant it.”

“Well, of course you meant it.” Malfoy’s stabs at his drink were getting more and more vicious. “You’re ridiculously earnest.”

“Well?” Harry said.

“Why should I want to have dinner with your friends?”

Harry was pretty sure Malfoy meant to sound quarrelsome, but somehow he’d misjudged his tone and only seemed uncertain. “I don’t know,” Harry said honestly, shrugging. “Because I want you to.”

Malfoy looked up. There were pink spots high on his cheeks, and his eyes seemed very bright. “You—” he started to say, then cut himself off, his gaze drifting down again. “Have you cleared this with them?”

“Hermione says she likes you.”

“Then you haven’t.”

“They’ll be alright with it.”

“Weasley doesn’t like me.”

“He’ll get over it.” 

Malfoy was gazing into his drink with an expression of deepest concentration; perhaps, Harry thought, he was trying to decipher why on earth it was so pink. “Because you say so?”

“I got over it,” Harry pointed out.

“Have you,” Malfoy said, but it wasn’t a question. He was still looking at his drink.

“Mostly.” Harry smirked. “Except when you’re a git.”

“Thanks for that.”

“Then are you coming?”

“Fine.”

“Really?”

Malfoy shot him a disbelieving look, caught sight of Harry's grin and quickly looked away. “Yes.” 

Harry regarded him curiously. “Why?” 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Potter. Because you asked.”

*

“Malfoy, Harry?” Ron exclaimed when he opened his front door the following evening to find them both standing there. “Have you forgotten he poisoned me?”

“Is that why your face looks like that?” Malfoy asked politely.

Red in the face, Ron gestured wildly, evidently lost for words. Harry was starting to think perhaps he should have warned him ahead of time.

“Is it also why he can't control his arms?”

“Ron,” Harry said, shooting Malfoy a stern look, “he's just baiting you. Ignore him.”

“Why have him around if the best you can do with him is ignore him?”

“Aesthetic appeal,” Malfoy said. “I have a very fine brow.”

“You really don't,” Harry told him. “Ron, he's alright.”

“It's _Malfoy_ , Harry. Bloody hell, it was bad enough when Hermione was going on about him, but you...”

“Granger’s got good things to say, has she?” Malfoy was never very good at hiding earnest pleasure, though Harry thought maybe he was trying to conceal it, especially when Hermione appeared at the door.

Her brows raised as she glanced from Harry to Draco. Then she looked at her husband, snorted, and said, “Draco, Harry, please come in. _Honestly_ , Ron.”

Muttering something unintelligible, Ron turned and strode back inside. Malfoy, squaring his shoulders, followed after him with a nod to Hermione and a pink flush in his cheeks.

One of the things Hermione admired about Malfoy, Harry discovered to his surprise a little while later, was his taste in music.

“You really should give Sting a go,” she was saying to Harry as Malfoy nodded agreement.

“Soft rock.” Ron made a disgusted noise. “I tell you, the whole world's mad. The only sane people in this house are me and the three-month-old.”

“The three-month-old is dribbling like a crazed lunatic,” Malfoy informed him, “and Sting is _magnificent_. You probably like _Celestina Warbeck_ or something.” He looked at Hermione. “He does, doesn't he?”

“You mean you don’t like . . . ?” Harry trailed off. “But what about 'Love At First Spell'?” All three of them turned to him with incredulous expressions. “It’s a classic,” Harry finished, disgruntled.

“It’s alright, Harry.” Malfoy’s tone was gentle. “You’re not one of the sane ones in the house.”

Ron scowled at Malfoy, and Hermione cleared her throat uncomfortably. Then she moved onto less contentious subjects, talking about work to Malfoy. They got caught up in a discussion of kneazle lore, leaving Ron and Harry easily behind. Malfoy shouldn’t have looked so happy about it, since it was easy to get Hermione caught up in lore of any kind, but Harry was noticing that Malfoy had a tendency to hover where Hermione was concern, and to listen very seriously to everything she said. It was more than anyone could have ever said for Harry and Ron.

Ron leaned over and said, “There’s only one way to handle this.”

Harry, afraid that Ron had noticed Malfoy was a trifle sweet on his wife, whispered, “Handle what?”

“Malfoy in the living room,” Ron answered. Harry felt pretty sure Ron's suggestion was going to involve fists somehow, because he had a very determined look on his face. Instead, Ron said, “I’m going to get him a butterbeer.”

Then Ron went into the kitchen, Harry looking after him in surprise. 

“What do you think, Harry?” Malfoy asked suddenly.

“Huh?” said Harry, and Hermione started enthusiastically explaining something about Egyptian cats and gods while Harry tried his best to pay attention this time.

So attentive was he, in fact, that he didn't notice Malfoy slipping away until he was in the kitchen. Oh god. “I'd better go see what Malfoy’s up to,” Harry said nervously, and stood up.

“Probably just helping Ron,” Hermione said offhandedly.

Harry stared at her, halfway out of his seat. Ron was right. Everyone really had gone crazy. “Helping make Ron want to beat the crap out of him, you mean,” he said.

“No. Ron’s getting drinks, isn’t he?”

“What?” said Harry, and then Malfoy and Ron came out of the kitchen, each holding two bottles, Malfoy smiling and Ron looking mostly bemused and neither of them sporting any visible bruises.

There was something about Malfoy sneaking off to the kitchen and coming back looking like the cat that got the cream that was very unsettling.

“Here,” said Malfoy airily, handing Harry a bottle. “I propose a toast.”

“What for?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“To the Chudley Cannons,” Malfoy announced grandly.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Malfoy, you—”

“Love the Chudley Cannons? Ardently admire and adore them? Yes, I do.” Smugly, Malfoy raised his bottle.

“You’re a lying git,” said Ron. “But I’ll toast to that.”

Malfoy beamed.

*

In the last few months—since Ginny's wedding, since Harry had started thinking he might actually make it—Harry had been meeting Ron a couple of times a month to play Quidditch with whoever else they could scrounge up to make two teams. Playing again was great; the only problem was that no one but Ginny could really come close to matching him as Seeker. Even if they had not had an unspoken agreement which meant playing against Ginny was out, she would have won any game too quickly were she Seeker anyway. This made for some mismatched teams, and boring matches.

For all that Malfoy had been a horrible cheat at school, he really was a fabulous Seeker and so, each eager to keep in practice, they came to play one-on-one games from time to time, meeting on Saturdays. The competition was good and so was the chance to burn off some excess energy. Harry had to think of the field less and less.

He kept thinking, though, about the conversation he had had with Hermione about Malfoy, and he realized two things. The first was that Malfoy really loved Quidditch. He didn’t love Quidditch the way Ginny loved Quidditch—Harry was convinced no one really loved Quidditch the way Ginny loved Quidditch. But Malfoy did love it; you could tell by the way he was those Saturdays. 

He was a little ridiculous, really, zooming about and crowing, reminding Harry just a little of the way he'd been at school. Malfoy was all confidence and posturing, jeering even, because Malfoy was unhealthily competitive. He was also competitive in a breathless, utterly elated way; “you’re going down, Potter!” was perhaps his favorite comment ever, and he really really meant it. 

But even if he became a holy terror whenever it looked like Harry was going to get to the Snitch ahead of him, Malfoy was careening with unassailable glee the entire time. When he did lose, he demanded rematches and made ridiculous excuses, but he was pink and breathless and his eyes were alight with exhilaration. 

Afterwards they would go for lunch or dinner, and Malfoy would talk about their match the whole time, waving his arms, using his hand to imitate his broom. He recreated Harry's moves, too, and it wasn’t always to imitate the times Harry had lost control. Once Malfoy even said, “That was amazing, that turn. How did you do it?”

And Harry had to say, “Well, you’ve got to pull up a bit first.”

Malfoy’s eyes lit up. “You’re going to teach me.”

Harry smirked. “Am I?”

“Oh, yes. I’m going to be invincible at Quidditch.”

“Why’s that?” 

“Don’t you see? With your powers and mine combined, I would be unbeatable.”

“Wouldn’t I be able to beat you?”

Malfoy looked incredulous. “Don’t be ridiculous. As if I would ever give you _my_ powers.” 

The next time they played, Malfoy caught the Snitch, and he didn’t let Harry live it down for days.

The second thing Harry realized was that most of the other people Malfoy might have played Quidditch with were dead, or in prison, or had moved away.

Harry was thinking about this, about Malfoy loving Quidditch and not having anyone to play with, when he invited Malfoy to play a game with his friends. He wasn’t thinking about the rest of it, how no one liked Malfoy, how in fact most of the people he played with actively hated him.

But Malfoy accepted. He came to the field looking white and nervous and extremely drawn about the mouth and eyes. He was painstakingly polite to everyone—except Harry, because he had never really been polite to Harry. No one was pleased to have him there, but no one made him leave. 

If one thing could be said for Malfoy, it was that he was persistent. He played the game doggedly, and his team won the match.

No one clapped Malfoy on the back, and he did not stay to go out to the pub afterward. The next time Harry asked, Malfoy still agreed to come, and by degrees, everyone got more and more used to the idea that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy could be friends. 

That was how Malfoy got to better know the Weasleys. In time Ron had actually come to quite like Sting, but the rest of the family had suffered less exposure, and tended to be wary.

Arthur was never rude to Malfoy but sometimes Harry caught the puzzled glances he threw him, like he was looking at another version of Lucius. Molly's maternal instincts seemed to take over and she tended to feed him pies on the basis that he was too pale, but she kept her distance. Bill, his scars a constant presence, wasn't disposed to like him, and nor was Charlie, who apparently didn't think Suzy the spine-tailed blue would approve of him. George expressed a very definite desire to lock him in a Vanishing Cabinet just like Montague, except, for preference, the part where they found him again. Percy, on the other hand, rather liked him, which was damning in and of itself.

Ginny only said, “He cheats at Quidditch, Harry.”

This was really all that needed to be said, when Harry came one day to the practice pitch they all reserved once a fortnight, with a broom, Quidditch gloves, a Snitch, and Draco Malfoy.

But this too, eventually, changed—due in part, Harry suspected, to secret kitchen visits. In fact, Harry thought Malfoy and Molly spent an abnormal amount of time in there. One time Malfoy came out with flour on his cheekbone, looking very earnestly pleased. 

Later that day, Teddy learned about pie.

Once Molly had warmed to Malfoy, the rest of the family started to follow. Arthur spent more time with him and seemed to realize that he really wasn't his father. Bill was too big a man to hold a grudge, and Suzy too big a dragon to focus too much dislike on one Malfoy. Percy—well, Percy was family.

George still didn’t like Malfoy, and the feeling was mutual. A few pranks were traded back and forth between them, too malicious for the tastes of Harry and Hermione and anyone with an ounce of brain, _honestly_ , Ron, no one should be laughing. But George had to admit Malfoy could really play Quidditch, and Malfoy had to admit that George could really torment people, and continual, inventive annoyance of others was something in which Malfoy took keen interest. They settled into a kind of grudging respect for one another and were occasionally seen plotting together, which kind of scared Harry and Hermione and anyone with an ounce of brain. Ron thought he really shouldn’t laugh and did anyway.

Ginny only said, “He still cheats at Quidditch.”

Ginny could hold a grudge for a long, long time. Also, Ginny could be really, really obsessive about Quidditch.

In some ways it made Harry love her more, that she was so fiery, stubborn, competitive, so willfully loyal. In other ways it made Harry angry, made him want to shake all the hatred out of her, _force_ her to accept Malfoy, force her to do whatever he wanted or needed her to do because she couldn’t be her own person; she was his.

She was married to Dean Thomas, who seemed to think Malfoy was alright, maybe because of the way Harry stayed away from Ginny and close to Malfoy. 

Most of the monster was buried deep inside Harry these days, not a problem, but the sight of Ginny’s flaming hair and subtle curves could draw it forth. Most people didn’t any more. Malfoy certainly wouldn’t. Malfoy had been part of the impetus to get the monster under control in the first place.

*

“You know, there were a lot of strange rumors about you,” Malfoy said one day. It was a Saturday; they’d spent the afternoon on broomsticks chasing a Snitch. They were sweaty and exhausted. Harry was lying in the grass with his arm over his eyes and Malfoy was somewhere beside him, determined to exert his superiority over the grass by ripping it up in handfuls and letting it flutter about him. “Rumors about all the crazy stuff you did after quitting the Aurors.”

Malfoy had never brought up the specifics of Harry’s behavior during that time, and Harry didn’t want to talk about it. He was keeping the monster down.

“They’re all bollocks, of course, the rumors,” Malfoy said, yanking out more grass. “But there was one more bollocksy than the rest. I don’t even know why people bothered, had nothing to do with anything, just stupid, Boy Who Lived Savior of the World Chosen One Gryffindor—”

“Got it.”

“—Hero Golden Boy gossip.”

Harry lay there and did not pull his arm from his eyes. He thought of the field. There, the grass waved in sunlight. There was no road. Malfoy walked down the slope; his legs were long and sure.

“Well,” Harry said, after a while. “Come on then. What rumor was it?”

Malfoy stopped tugging on the grass. Harry could feel his gaze. “That you’re a homosexual.”

Harry relaxed and didn’t say anything.

Malfoy flicked around the poor murdered pieces of grass some more. “I didn’t believe it, of course. Even if everything else was true, that wouldn’t be.”

“Hm.” Harry stirred. “Why’s that?”

“What?” Malfoy said, startled. “Because it was the most bizarre. It had to be a lie.”

“I always rather thought making a dragon dance the paso doble was the most bizarre.” That one wasn’t true. Making that dragon walk away had become making a dragon dance, which had then become the paso doble. Harry didn’t even know what a paso doble was.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Malfoy said. “No doubt the second Weasley can make a Norwegian Ridgeback dance the can-can.”

“A French dragon would be more suited.”

“You mean a Parisian Wetback, and they’re all extinct.”

“You spend a lot of time talking to Charlie,” Harry said.

“He’s decent. Unlike some Weasleys we know.”

“Hm,” Harry said again. Then, after a pause, “It’s half true.”

“What? That the Weasleys are alright? Let’s see. I like William. And Charles. And Molly is . . .” Malfoy stared into space for a moment, and Harry remembered Malfoy’s thing about crazy hair. “Ronald is acceptable, and Arthur reminds me of—this doesn’t bear discussion. ” For a moment, Malfoy seemed taken aback. “Surely that’s not half.”

“That I’m homosexual,” Harry clarified. “It’s half true.”

Malfoy was silent for a while. “But you liked girls in school.”

“That’s what I mean. I like girls, too.” He looked at Malfoy curiously, wondering what his reaction would be. He had first discovered his interest in men as a form of self-destruction, but now he didn’t think of it that way. He tried not to think of it at all, actually, because being interested in anyone at this point seemed like too much too soon.

Harry hadn’t known what the rest of the world thought, when he started sleeping around with men. He hadn’t cared what the rest of the world thought. But now he wondered what Malfoy would think, whether pureblood bigotry extended to homosexuality. If it did, if Malfoy was disgusted with him, it would be . . . disappointing, Harry realized. He was really starting to like Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy merely sniffed. “As I recall, you liked girls enough to be snogging Mrs. Weasley-Thomas almost before my guts were back inside my body.”

“You're the one who's so fond of reminding me I'm no longer sixteen, Malfoy. And Ginny and I are long since over.”

“You sure about that? I see the way you look at her.”

“Do you?” Harry asked, distracted. “We are.”

“Fine.”

“Okay.”

After another short pause, Malfoy said again, “Fine. But I have a question.”

Harry finally moved his arm from his eyes, slanting a glance at Malfoy, wondering what his reaction was. “Yeah?”

“Was it Lockhart’s flaxen locks that first made you fall in love with him or not?”

*

That summer, Harry learned to speak to mermaids. 

He did not go to the lake at Hogwarts. Instead he went to Cumbria and, using gillyweed, got to know the merfolk there. 

Merfolk were not welcoming beings, but Harry had been used to centaurs, and he was in no hurry. He discovered underwater a kind of patience he had never had before.

At first, the merfolk resented his encroachment on their territory. Harry tried to show them that he meant no harm and, gradually, they grew to tolerate him, if not welcome him. Sometimes they spoke to him. Harry still did not understand them, but their mocking expressions were so reminiscent of Malfoy that Harry got along with them rather well.

“I resent comparison to fish people,” Malfoy said later, when Harry told him this.

By then Harry had learned some Mermish. Most of the merfolk were still rather cool toward him, but they also seemed quite interested. “They do have fun laughing at me,” Harry said, “and tell me my hair manages to look bad even underwater, where everyone’s sticks up.”

“I must meet these wonderful creatures. It’s obvious they have incredible intellect and superior taste.”

The merfolk had many strange customs, an entire culture that had flourished unnoticed for six years under his nose, but eventually Harry began to understand this foreign culture, to respect it. 

He spent long hours under the lake, learning the trident games the merfolk played, discovering the secrets of giant squid, hearing rumors of buried treasure and eating kelp and trout tossed salad. He had never been much for learning out of books, but this practice of learning by experience suited him entirely. And, in time, the merfolk began to respect him back.

“They’re scaly,” Malfoy said, emerging from the lake drenched. “They’re scaly and they’re fishy and they laugh too much, and their seaweed salad is dreadful.”

“You just don’t like them because they laughed at you.”

“Points to Gryffindor for your keen powers of observation.” Malfoy was slogging up to shore. Once there, he found his wand and cast a drying spell on himself. “Did you figure that out on your own? Or did they reveal it some time when they were babbling at you in fishese?”

“I told you they didn’t like strangers.”

“Yes. But I am me, and the people of Mer and me share a natural affinity.” Malfoy had insisted on keeping his shirt on and now, though it was dry, it was ruined. “Ugh. Pond scum.” He tried to brush off the algae caked on the material, frowning at Harry. “We both suffer putting up with you.”

Harry laughed and splashed him.

For several moments, Malfoy stood there, his mouth open, looking pitifully wet and miserable. “Oh, no you don’t.” He crashed back into the water, hands outstretched, lunging for Harry’s neck.

Harry laughed again and dunked him.

Malfoy reached for him again, thrashing, and tried to hold his head underwater, but he was too angry to really be effective. Harry kept laughing.

“I hate you,” Malfoy said, sitting in the muck in the shallow water. “I really hate you. I’ve always hated you. I want you to know it was I who sent you the singing Valentine in second year.”

Harry trudged up out of the water. He’d taken his shirt off before he went in, and reached for it blindly in the pile of clothing. His hands closed on clean, dry cloth and he brought it up to get the excess water out of his hair. “Why were you sending me Valentines if you hate me so much?”

Malfoy was looking at him furiously. “It was to _humiliate_ you, Potter, and what are you doing with my robes?”

Harry looked down at the cloth in his hands. Then he found his glasses and looked down at the cloth in his hands again. Then he looked at Malfoy and smirked. “What?” he asked. “Drying my hair. Hope that’s okay. I mean, you obviously want to spend more time down there in the water, but some of us would rather stay up here and try to get dry.”

“I—you . . .” Eventually Malfoy stood up, frowning deeply as he waded again up to shore. He snatched the robes from Harry’s hands. He cast a drying spell, then a cleaning spell. He looked down again at his shirt, but some of that stuff wasn’t coming off without more serious care.

“If you weren’t so modest,” Harry said, “your shirt would be clean.”

“If you weren’t such a lumbering troll, my robes would be clean,” Malfoy snapped.

“You can wear my robes,” Harry offered.

“I don’t want your robes,” Malfoy said, but took them anyway.

Harry watched him put them on. Then his hand stretched out without him really thinking about it, without thinking about how he’d never really touched him.

He thought about it, though, when Malfoy jerked away. 

“Here,” Harry said quietly, and moved closer. Malfoy—pale and wet, everything sticking to him and looking like a drowned rodent—was very tense. “You’ve got . . . seaweed,” Harry explained. He reached again and Malfoy let him, and Harry pulled the seaweed out of Malfoy’s hair.

Malfoy made a face. “I’m never going to be clean again. Why do you do this?”

Harry shrugged. “I wanted to learn Mermish. Why did you?”

“What?”

“You didn’t have to come.”

Malfoy’s frown turned frightful. “You said I should meet them and they’d get used to me and I would have lots of fun.”

Harry winced. “I—I’m sorry.”

Giving a noisy sigh, Malfoy said, “Don’t go all guilty and brooding and tragic. No one wants you to run off again and hole yourself up in a hovel just because you absolutely ruined everything. Besides,” Malfoy went on, pulling on his clean shoes and socks. “They were kind of neat.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “They are, aren’t they? With the creepy singing. And the trident stuff.”

“Don’t go getting excited, Potter. You still ruined everything.”

*

After that, Harry learned Gobbledegook. 

“What is it with you and magical creatures?” Malfoy asked.

Harry hadn’t thought about it that way. He’d been thinking instead that he should apologize, somehow, for breaking into Gringotts. After all, the goblins had been neutral during the war. Goblins didn’t understand apologies, as it turned out, but they did understand work as a form of remuneration. 

“You just want my job,” Malfoy said gleefully. “Glory hound.”

“You handle the politics,” Harry said. “Contract negotiations and legislation and things.” Harry shrugged. “I’m just the human interest guy.”

“You mean the goblin interest guy. Hey, is fancying both witches and wizards sort of a gateway to fancying an even more diverse range of magical beings? Goblins do have those ears, you know.”

While Malfoy didn’t seem like he was against the idea of bisexuality deep down, he did say horribly offensive things from time to time. Harry wasn’t offended. Occasionally, it occurred to him that Malfoy brought up the sexuality thing rather more often than he really had to, but he didn’t really think about it much more than that.

Harry eventually got a job as an assistant in code-breaking, which was fun, since he occasionally exchanged correspondence with Bill Weasley. He also got to be on good terms with a goblin couple who invited him for brunch sometimes. Goblins, Harry learned, were very keen on brunch. 

Harry thought he might stay on six months or so at Gringotts, and was already considering what to do next. He liked not being tied down to any one thing.

“Commitment phobic,” Malfoy said, in a horribly self-satisfied tone.

Harry was thinking of going to Romania next to work for Charlie.

“I suppose you’ll be working for One-Eared Weasley next,” Malfoy grumped. He had finally convinced Harry to go flat-hunting. They were stood alone in the main room of a flat above a shop, while the woman who was showing them round let a couple in downstairs.

“Maybe,” Harry said, looking out the window at Diagon Alley. “It would be interesting to know something about owning a business,” Harry added.

“Fine,” Malfoy said. “But you can’t go to _Romania_.”

Harry looked at Malfoy, startled. “Why not?”

“It’s too—” Malfoy broke off, looking startled himself. “There are too many vampires there. You’ll come back too pale and pasty and if you can’t go out in the sunlight, how will Thomas and Smith and I make you eat dust at Quidditch?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, there’re vampires. Not to mention _dragons_. And you'll never make me eat dust at Quidditch.”

“Just you wait, Potter. You’ll get what’s coming.”

“You always say that and then I never get anything.”

A familiar glint appeared in Malfoy’s eye. Harry was convinced it had something to do with mania and possibly acute schizophrenia. “So,” Malfoy said amiably, much too amiably to be innocent, “you’re moving out of your hermitage and into London-town, where all the world is happening. Curse-breaking, romps in Romania with the fittest Weasley, internment and torture under a Middle Weasley. Looks like you’ve got your career all planned out.”

Harry sorted through this speech to see if he was being insulted anywhere in it. “You think Charlie is fit?” was what he came up with.

“There’s only one thing you’re missing in your life,” Malfoy continued imperiously, ignoring him. “A dream, a wish your heart has made: the love, eternal devotion and marriage vows of one Gorgeous Gilderoy.”

Harry grunted. “I wish you would stop calling him that.”

“Don’t be ashamed,” Malfoy advised him. “Half of Hogwarts fancied him. Make that half plus one, seeing as we need to add you to the female population of our revered Alma Mater.”

“You bring him up so much, I’m beginning to think you had a crush on him yourself.”

Malfoy drew himself up with dignity. “I was engaged in a torrid affair with Pansy at the time.”

“You were twelve at the time.”

“Malfoys mature early. I was a very charming twelve-year-old, if you’ll recall.” At Harry’s look, Malfoy shrugged. His lips twitched. “At any rate I had little time to poof about fancying professors.”

“But time enough to send me a Valentine,” Harry pointed out.

“I was also engaged in a formidable battle of wit and cunning, possibly to the death, with my most unfairly exalted and kind of crazy foe, if you will also recall.”

“I don’t remember that. Must’ve been killing a basilisk at the time.”

“Don’t feign ignorance. We were bitter enemies and rivals.”

“Come to think of it, sometimes there was this annoying buzzing in my ear.”

Malfoy jabbed a finger at him, somehow wildly missing his shoulder and managing to poke his ear. “You threatened me! In _snake_.”

“What?”

“Have I ever mentioned how off-putting all that hissing was? It almost made me give up on you completely as a worthy opponent. Not that you ever were. Besides, it’s just plain revolting; imagine having an enemy insensate enough to have a speech impediment. Nemesssisss just doesn’t sound the same, you know?” 

Somewhere during this tirade, Harry had stopped listening. “Malfoy, you idiot, I was talking to the snake, not you.”

“Maybe we all should’ve left you two alone. First goblins, now snakes. Harry, you bring shame on me.” Strangely, shame on Malfoy looked rather like pleasure.

“Anyway, it was Justin Finch-Fletchley everyone thought I was trying to threaten.”

Shame suddenly looked displeased. “Well maybe I should just leave you alone with Justin Finch-Fletchley.”

“Er, no.”

“Not your type,” Malfoy suggested. “Doesn’t play Quidditch.”

“What?”

“Pay attention, Potter. You have a type and it’s Quidditch-obsessed. Take Chang and the icklest Weasley. Come to think of it, both of them were Seekers. Do you have a Seeker kink or does any position suit you?”

“Er. Position?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Don’t be vulgar. It’s—well, vulgar. I’m just clearing your name a bit, here. If you never had a thing for Keepers, for instance . . . I can Scourgify my brain of all the hideous, insidious suspicions I’ve had, since learning you’re a poof, that you’ve got a thing for the Weasel.”

Harry didn’t say anything.

If he had thought about it, he would have expected Malfoy to grow horrified. Instead, Malfoy looked out the window, and said much more quietly, “Have you got a thing for Ronald Weasley, Potter?”

“No.”

Malfoy kept his back turned. “Don’t sound so sure of yourself,” he said. Harry knew Malfoy meant the comment to be mocking, but he’d gone wrong again and instead it sounded soft.

Harry looked at the line of Malfoy’s neck. He didn’t want to tell Malfoy about the way he sometimes thought of his friends, even when he didn’t mean to, even when it wasn’t what he wanted. Malfoy had never really understood the monster, and Harry didn’t want to explain it now that he had it locked away, and the claws inside his chest so rarely tried to rip themselves free.

So instead he said, “I don’t want Ron, Malfoy.”

Malfoy lifted his nose. “Good.”

Harry tried to smile. “Don’t want me to suffer from unrequited love?”

“After Lockhart, I’m not sure you could withstand the heartbreak.”

Harry shook his head. “You’re insane, you know that?”

“You admire insanity. Thus your fatal attraction to our darling lunatic, Gilderoy, and his gorgeous hair.” Malfoy’s nose wrinkled. 

“Oh yeah,” Harry said. “I completely go for blonds.”

“Do you?” 

Harry was going to go on being sarcastic when he saw that Malfoy was looking away, very earnestly pretending not to care. 

Harry felt his blood thrum; it was a drum which could wake the monster. “Malfoy,” he said, very carefully. “Are you—”

Malfoy gave a fluid shrug. “Someone has to help you with your love life. Else you’ll go on determined to martyr your sexuality in a noble self-sacrificial effort to save us all, and then where would we be? They’d probably start a religion after you, just like that Christian fellow the Muggles love, the one with well-defined abdominal muscles.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, after a startled moment. “You just said Jesus has nice abs.”

“He’s always hanging about in a loincloth. How could anyone fail to notice?”

“On the _cross_. You are utterly . . .”

“Clever? Witty? Possessed of nice abs?”

Harry frowned. After a moment he said, “I’m not martyring my sexuality, or whatever you said.”

The lightness had gone out of Malfoy’s eyes and voice. “Don’t give me that. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying to do. Well, actually, I don’t, because it’s you, and who can fathom your brain?” Malfoy paused dramatically. “But anyway, don’t think I don’t know that you promised yourself if you could never have Mrs. Weasley-Thomas you were never going to have anyone at all.”

“It’s not like that.”

“You think you’re too good, or too bad. Pick one, it’s all the same; you think you’re too _special_ to have a girlfriend. Or boyfriend. Or goblinfriend, Harry, you deviant. You think it’s all about you.”

“I rather think my love life is about me, thanks.”

Malfoy flapped a dismissive hand. “Precisely. You think that anyone cares? You think you’re making some big sacrifice? You’re only punishing yourself.”

“You seem to care.”

Malfoy stopped flapping and suddenly grabbed Harry’s arm. “I don’t like stupidity,” he hissed.

“Shut up,” Harry said, trying to pull his arm away. “I’m not—”

“Yes, you are.” Malfoy’s fingers dug in deep, knuckles going white. His lips were the same color. “Merlin knows how I got into this, saving you from yourself.”

Harry didn’t try to pull away again. “Okay. I get it. You’re just trying to be a friend.”

Malfoy looked surprised, and dropped his arm. “Well . . . yes. But don’t tell Granger,” he added, looking around as though Hermione might jump out from a cupboard. “She has an unbecoming propensity to gloat when she feels she’s been proven right.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Thanks to [livejournal.com profile] lusiology and [livejournal.com profile] fat_teaspoon, who both gave this a look-see.

Harry kept Chimera Downs.

He liked the security of knowing that it was still his. He could go to it whenever he chose. There was still an escape. Harry didn’t plan on using it, and he liked that too.

He still owned Grimmauld Place as well, but he was never going to live there. Instead, Harry had rented out a flat Malfoy had helped him find in Cantcomp Lane, another wizarding district of London—more residential than Diagon Alley, and rather less busy. The address was 92, and his flat was number five.

As Harry unpacked the boxes in his new flat, Malfoy lolled about on a worn sofa, watching him. Hermione and Ron and George had helped him move; now it was mostly a matter of getting settled in. Ron had said he’d come over again to help unpack more boxes, and Hermione had fretted about being there because she feared the men’s taste in decorating, but then the baby had developed colic.

So it was just he and Malfoy unpacking: Harry doing all the unpacking, and Malfoy doing all the watching him and occasionally whinging. Harry brought up the conversation they’d had that day flat hunting, something along the lines of Malfoy thinking he could help Harry with his love life.

Malfoy looked appalled. “I said someone needs to help you. Certainly not me.”

Harry snorted. “Just like you helped me look for a flat?”

Malfoy turned his nose up. “Please note: I never come to help you. I come to mock you.”

Harry shook his head. “You really do, don’t you.”

“Malfoys always do exactly what they intend. Even your tiny powers of observation should’ve discovered that.”

Harry didn’t say anything about Lucius. “You know,” he said, dumping a load of his Quidditch equipment into a cupboard, “you’re not one to talk. It’s not like you’ve got a girlfriend, either.”

“What makes you so sure I like girls?”

Harry turned to look at him, surprised. “I thought you fancied Hermione.”

“Well.” Malfoy waved a hand about in a derisive manner. “Of course I didn’t. She’s a Muggleborn, and I’m a Malfoy, and—” He paused thoughtfully, tilting his head. “And obviously our mad, wild monkey passion was doomed from the start.”

“Um. Monkeys? I’d really rather not think about Hermione and—” 

“Yes.” Malfoy nodded enthusiastically. “And so, to preserve ourselves, and a doomed—doomed!—passion for which the world was not ready, we had to bury our love, bank our consuming passion—primate passion. She had to marry a brainless boor just to significantly cover it up and I had to have many threesomes with beautiful, beautiful Scandanavian blondes, and once a Veela, and anyway a long line of desirable and devoted love-slaves.”

“Oh.” Harry went back to sorting through the box that had had his Quidditch gear. “Where are you keeping the love-slaves, again?”

“I’m still working on that part.”

“Right.” Harry pulled out some pictures from Hogwarts and a couple of old books. “And there was Parkinson.”

“If you ever accuse Pansy of being a part of anyone’s harem but mine I will use your ears for tiny teacups.”

“Well, she is married to Goyle.”

“Tiny teacups, Potter.”

“Anyway, I meant, you like girls, because you went out with Parkinson.”

“So? You went out with Chang.”

“Yeah. Um, so, are you?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “Am I what?” Harry rolled his eyes and Malfoy said, “No. I’m not; I . . . You just—you shouldn’t assume, you know.”

*

Later, Malfoy said, “At least, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think this is where it should go?” Harry looked down at the pine chest he’d just pushed into place. Instead of moving it with spells, Harry had been pushing it around. He liked the idea of arranging his new flat by the force of his own body, rather than the force of his magic. The place felt more real that way, and he had to think less of fields.

Malfoy no doubt disapproved. He was disdainful of physical labor when the same work could be accomplished by wand. No doubt he disdained of sweat, also. It was beaded on Harry’s brow, and he’d stripped down to the t-shirt under his jumper. The chest was heavy, and Harry wasn’t looking forward to moving it again.

Malfoy had been sitting on the couch the whole time watching. “It works terribly there,” he said, “you can’t put your feet on it from this couch, and I don’t think I’m gay.”

Harry almost dropped the lamp he’d been thinking about putting on the chest. “I’m not moving this again just because it’s not convenient to where you happen to be sitting.”

“Suit yourself. Even though yourself is infinitely less design conscious than myself.”

Harry sat down on the chest and looked at Malfoy. “So, how come you don’t know for sure?”

“How am I supposed to?” Malfoy said, irritated.

Harry shrugged. “You’re twenty-five.”

“I’m well aware of my age, thank you. I . . .” At some point before he’d told him to move the chest, Malfoy had stopped lolling about on the couch in a lounge-like fashion. His legs were pulled up on the couch in front of him, his arms around them. He looked stiff, like a folded paper gargoyle defending some position. “It’s not like I’ve ever done it.”

“Done what?”

“A bloke. Keep up.”

Harry shrugged again. “Maybe you should try it.”

Malfoy glared. “And who am I supposed to try it with?”

“Just—” Harry had been going to say, “do what I did,” but then, he didn’t ever want anyone to do the things he had done, and certainly not Malfoy. 

Harry hadn’t turned to men because he thought that he might like them; he had done it because he thought he wouldn’t. He had hated himself for the way he had treated Ginny. She had loved him to the point of forgiving things she shouldn’t. In the end, that was why he had had to leave, but he hated himself for leaving her, too. He hated the pain that it caused her, but even more than that, he hated that he could not have her.

He had defeated Voldemort. He had saved the world. He deserved some measure of happiness in return. Maybe he deserved Ginny. Maybe he even deserved to treat her the way he had . . . . 

Harry had left because he had been disgusted with himself. He hated thing things he thought about Ginny. He hated the things he thought about his friends. He hated his desires. Instead of seeking to destroy said desire, he had sought to sate them in ways that disgusted even himself. He had been seeking punishment.

He had found prostitutes easily enough. When he encountered his first rentboy, he realized he did not care about gender or sex. He wanted not to care about anything at all, and he found oblivion just as easily in men as women.

“You’re a lot of help,” Draco said.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, his voice rough.

“Well, I can see that.” Malfoy was trying to sound mocking, but instead he was coming out gentle. Malfoy was always making mistakes like that. “So, it’s not like I have anyone to try it out on, because the only one I know who’s a poof is you.” He paused. 

Harry didn’t say anything, and then Malfoy blithely continued, as though the pause had never happened. “And certainly that’s not on. One does not experiment on—on friends.”

Harry stood up and took a step toward Malfoy. Malfoy’s gray eyes flickered again, and suddenly, Harry remembered several weeks before, when he’d really first noticed Malfoy’s preternatural interest in his love life. He remembered almost half a year ago now, Malfoy shredding grass while asking him if he was really gay, and Harry saw now that that had been nervousness.

Taking another step forward, Harry saw that this was nervousness now. It was also confusion and curiosity, and—something—

Harry could show him.

But then Harry thought of what he could show him, the only things he could show. He did not want Malfoy to learn the way he had learned, nor did he want to use Malfoy in that way. He couldn’t do that to Malfoy. He couldn’t do that to anyone he cared about; he couldn’t do that to anyone ever again.

“You’re right,” Harry said, carefully and without expression. “I should move the chest.”

Malfoy looked away.

Bracing his legs, Harry started on moving the chest across the floor, pushing it in increments.

“I’ve only just remembered,” Malfoy said, “I’ve got a haircut. And data entry for that centaur contract. And tea. I’ve got tea, except I haven’t got any, so I’ve got to go to the shop, and—I’ve a very busy day.”

“You can go.” 

There was a little pause, which almost made Harry look. But he couldn’t look; he couldn’t. If he looked he wouldn’t see the field; he would see Malfoy, Malfoy and the way he usually was so smug, but Harry was sure somehow that he would not be smug now. He would be uncertain, and Harry was certain he couldn’t take uncertainty. So he kept on moving the chest.

“Your flat,” Malfoy said, and didn't finish.

“It’s okay,” said Harry. “You weren’t helping anyway.”

“Ah.” There was a short silence. “I'll be going then.” 

Then Malfoy was gone, and Harry slumped against the chest. 

He had got a job, just like Malfoy had said. He had got a flat, just like Malfoy had said.

He didn’t want the flat. He didn’t want to think about where to put the chest. He didn’t want to think about his failed relationships, the things he had done with men and women after Ginny. He didn’t want to think of Malfoy, either. Harry never had been sure why Malfoy showed up at Chimera Downs. Whatever he had been looking for, he deserved better than anything Harry could have given him.

Feeling like something was trying to claw its way out of him that could destroy his new flat, destroy his careful routines and efforts and relationships with friends, destroy this new life he had built, Harry thought of the field.

The slope rolled down like the shoulders of a giant, slumped and laid down like moving was too much effort. The grass across the giant’s back was very green, and stirred slightly in a light breeze. Other things were sleeping, but insects hummed in lazy heat. There was no road, and Draco Malfoy was coming down. Down and down and down . . . .

*

Harry kept that thought of the field. He kept it so he could keep the people he loved safe, so he could keep Malfoy safe. He kept it the next time he saw Malfoy, and was thinking of it as he half sat, half leaned against Malfoy’s desk at work while Malfoy was saying something about his centaur rights bill. 

Harry was only half-listening, distracted by Malfoy’s hands, the way the wrists were slender and strong, the fingers long and thin. Those fingers moved amongst the papers deftly, with agitation. Then when Malfoy got really into the conversation, the hands occupied themselves with taking a quill apart and putting it back together, the work more small and delicate than Harry’s fingers could have done.

There were ink stains on them now, blots black and dirty on pale skin, and Harry didn’t want Malfoy to wash them off.

“Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” Harry said abruptly. 

“Excuse me?” Malfoy’s voice was sharp. The fingers hovered for a moment over the quill, then set it down and got rigorously scrubbed clean on one of Malfoy’s napkins.

“A girlfriend. We were talking about it last week. Or a boyfriend.”

“Will you shut up?” Malfoy quickly looked around. Most people had called it quits for the night, but there were still stragglers in the office.

“You don’t want anyone to know?”

Malfoy frowned. “No. I don’t care.” He clicked his tongue. “Look here, Potter. My sexuality is my own business.”

“You said before you couldn’t find out on your own. You said that you would need a bloke.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be anyone from the office!” Malfoy looked around again and lowered his voice. “Anyway that wouldn’t be convenient, sleeping with someone I work with.”

“It would be very convenient. You wouldn’t have to go far.”

Malfoy was peevish. “I only said I didn’t know if I like wizards because I’ve never _tried_ it. I was trying to be _open_. I was trying to . . . to let you know you’re not special because of _that_ , either.”

“You thought you might be gay, just for my sake?”

“God.” Malfoy covered his face with a hand. “Don’t you even listen to yourself?”

“Sometimes.” Harry smirked.

There was ink on Malfoy’s hand, very stark against his skin, all sharp shadows and circles under his eyes.

Harry watched him. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

Malfoy took his hand away from his face and sat there for a while moodily. “In case you hadn’t noticed, most of the wizarding world thinks people like me are pariahs. As for people like me . . . .”

“You were attracted to Parkinson.”

Malfoy glared. “She’s married. To one of my oldest friends, ye of selective amnesia.”

“You said the other day, about her being a part of your—”

“She’s _married_. Maybe that doesn’t stop Gryffindors? Maybe, them being so dim, the only thing they see standing in their way is a husband’s wrath, and they’re brave enough to chance that, after all. Maybe you and—”

“Don’t,” Harry said, because when Malfoy was angry he lashed out. Malfoy didn’t hurt Harry often, but he could mention Ginny, and that would.

Malfoy didn’t mention Ginny. “Anyway. Pansy isn’t dead. Goyle isn’t dead. Thank you, Potter, for pointing out the two people I cared for who actually survived. It was so much help. Without you, I certainly wouldn’t have figured it out. Without you—”

Harry reached over and brushed his thumb across Malfoy’s cheek.

Malfoy stopped and stared.

“You had a smudge,” Harry said, gesturing at his own face. 

Malfoy still looked blank.

“From the the ink. Here.” Harry handed Malfoy another paper napkin.

Malfoy wiped his cheekbone. “Is it—?”

“Yes.” Harry shifted his weight on Malfoy’s desk. “You could always meet new people.” When Malfoy continued to look blank, he said, “You could date.”

“Fabulous. Thanks for the advice.” The words were sarcastic, but no longer vindictive. He just sounded tired and bitter.

“Why not?”

“This is why not, Potter, and it’s not coming off with a napkin.” Malfoy was suddenly jerking up his sleeve, thrusting his arm under Harry’s nose.

Harry looked down at Malfoy’s arm.

Malfoy tried to pull his sleeve back down. Before he could, Harry grabbed his wrist. “This,” he said, and stared down. 

Malfoy’s arm was milky white, the veins blue beneath clear skin. Malfoy was neither particularly muscular nor strong, but he also was very slim, and Harry could also see the cords of tendons, the shape of muscle. It could have been beautiful, and the effect of it was ruined by the shape of the Mark, hideous, red and twining, churning up that otherwise so flawless flesh. It was heinous, willing destruction, just as all the Death Eaters had been.

Harry couldn’t stop looking at it.

“This,” he said again, his voice rough.

Malfoy tried to pull away again, and Harry let him go. 

For the first time since Malfoy came to Chimera Downs, the first time in a long time, it occurred to Harry that he could be the strong one. “That isn’t who you are,” he said.

Malfoy yanked his sleeve down. “What would you know about it?”

Harry remembered the field. “My scar isn’t who I am.”

“Come off it. You're the Chosen One. Savior of the wizarding world. Boy Who Lived. Witch Weekly's Number—” ”

Harry’s fingers curled in on themselves. “You said I was just a man.”

“Because you seem to think you’re some super-wizard alien from Mars, who can’t live among mortals. When really you’re just a scarhead with bad hair.”

“Yeah. And you’re just a snot with an ugly arm.” Malfoy scowled and hugged his arm to himself. Instinctively Harry reached to touch it, but did not. 

“You told me I was a man,” Harry said. “Then you told me I had to act like one. Sorry, but you do too. You have to move forward. You have to reach for what you want.”

Malfoy looked away. His sleeve was still loose. “Maybe I can’t have what I want.”

Harry took his arm. “Because of this?”

Malfoy frowned. “Maybe I don’t know what I want.”

“Then you have to try,” Harry said, still holding Malfoy’s arm. “It’s what you told me. It’s what I’ve been doing. I’m not thinking about the past. I’m not thinking about the future. I’m just trying to do what feels—”

Harry stopped because Malfoy did move forward, and then Malfoy’s lips were brushing the corner of Harry’s mouth, hesitantly, barely a whisper of a touch. Malfoy pulled back, and he was close enough Harry could actually see his eyes widen, see the skin at the corners stretch out. The pupils were flicking rapidly over Harry’s face, as if reading a reaction.

Then he pulled back farther, and said, “There was a smudge.”

Harry didn't move. Malfoy started to pull away, and Harry instinctively tightened his grip. His eyes dropped from Malfoy’s eyes to Malfoy’s lips, and Harry caught his breath.

“Malfoy,” Harry said hoarsely, and leaned in. 

Harry had forgotten the field by then. He had forgotten about being the strong one.

He was only thinking getting it again, that warm soft press of lips, _reach for what you want_ , he had told Malfoy, and Malfoy had. Harry kissed him, tasted Malfoy’s hesitation, tasted Malfoy make a sound, melt under him. Malfoy’s hands went up to hold him, Malfoy’s mouth open under him, and Harry went deeper.

Malfoy was so warm; Harry had missed this. It felt so good, it felt so willing, another person’s body, another person’s heart, someone else to hold him, and take it all away.

Harry wasn’t sure how Malfoy got up against the wall that formed one side of his cubical. He didn’t know how he got to be standing between Malfoy’s legs, holding him so Malfoy could hardly move. Malfoy was alive in his grasp, warm and gasping, saying incoherent things. His heart was beating hard enough for Harry to feel it. 

Harry wasn’t sure, but he thought he was no longer kissing him. This was something else, with teeth and tongue and hard hands holding down. Harry was crawling inside his mouth until he didn’t know what the rest of the world felt like. He had been trying so hard to live again that he had forgotten how much he hated his own skin, but Harry remembered now. 

The monster had never liked it there.

Malfoy’s arms were around his neck; Malfoy’s narrow hips pressed into his as Harry committed lewd, disgraceful acts inside Malfoy’s mouth. He pulled away, turning Malfoy’s face, opening access to the jaw, the neck, where he sucked and scraped his teeth until Malfoy said, “You’re,” then began again, “You’ll leave a bruise.”

Harry wanted it to bruise. The clawing in his chest raged outward, tearing through his throat, right out of his mouth and down to ruin Malfoy’s perfect skin, to call up the blood beneath. He felt alive. He felt full of _joy_ , filthy and full and leaping high, letting this leashed and coiled power loose to wrap around Malfoy, to take him and make him his. This, all of this was his: Malfoy’s body, Malfoy’s throaty, rough sounds of need, that low spot of warmth, that raw tenderness that Harry felt whenever he thought of Draco Malfoy; Harry wanted to _mark_ —

Harry pushed him away. 

Malfoy panted, his eyes blown almost black, as though he’d been drugged or drained of blood. He moved like that, as though on the verge of crash; blindly he reached out.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. Then he went away, before he did anything much worse.

*

Harry went to Chimera Downs.

He looked at the cottage the way Malfoy must have looked at the cottage, having just come down the slope: a peaceful, innocent little place. A man could have everything he needed there. He would never have to leave.

Using wand and words, Harry pulled it down. He could feel it fall apart beneath the magic coiling inside him, the monster large and awake and clawing out of his throat. He did not even need his wand; merely his hands, his voice, could destroy it all. The monster could wreak havoc. The monster could end it all.

It had only been a kiss, but in some ways it was the closest Harry had been to another person in two and a half years, and all of the sudden he remembered he could hurt them. Once only love and jealousy had brought the monster with it, but as things had devolved with Ginny, with the Aurors, even with his friends, hate and despair and desire brought it too.

He could get a flat. He could get a job. Harry could be with his friends, but things like kissing—intimacy, they felt like too much.

The cottage came down, and the fence. The sycamore cracked in half, and Harry was on his knees. The broken cottage was shaking; the stumps were shaking; the ground was shaking. Harry’s eyes were hot and he thought that they were most likely red. The rest of his body had no blood, and all the world was cold. 

He felt free. He felt unfettered. He felt full of joy, and felt the world could fall to him. Then he saw the field.

There it was still. The grass was still green for the end of summer. It was the color Harry’s eyes used to be, as green as Aveda Kedavra and growing things. The stalks swayed gently with the shaking of the ground, just as though within a breeze. The sky was blue and blue and blue. It went on forever.

Harry gasped and closed his eyes, Draco Malfoy came strolling down the rise, his posture relaxed and easy, his hair tinted in the waning light. His lips twitched the way they did before a smile, and his hands were long and slender by his sides. He didn’t seem to know or care what Harry was, the color of his eyes. He just kept coming down to him, coming down.

Harry gasped, and gasped again, and slowly caught his breath. When he opened his eyes, the field still was green, and the sky had opened up to show bright stars. Grass moved gently in the breeze. Dark was coming on.

There was no road, Harry realized. His cottage was in ruins, the grounds in ruins, but the field still was there, and there was no road.

Slowly, Harry stood again. He had started rebuilding the moment Draco Malfoy first came down that slope.

Time to start again.

*

When Harry knocked at the door of Malfoy’s flat the next day, Malfoy opened the door and stared at him. When Malfoy kept staring like that and didn’t say anything, Harry said, “Um, how are you?”

Malfoy said, “Good, I’m fine,” and waited.

“I . . . I wanted to see you.”

“Right, that’s fine.” Malfoy left the door open and went into his flat.

It was actually the first time Harry had been in Malfoy’s flat. Sometimes he’d dropped by to see if Malfoy wanted to go down to the pub or play Quidditch or see a film, but inevitably Malfoy had immediately come out to the pub or played Quidditch or seen a film, instead of inviting him inside. Harry thought that maybe since most of the Malfoy fortune and all of its properties had gotten seized, Malfoy was embarrassed because the flat really wasn’t much to look at.

It wasn’t, Harry supposed. The walls were thin, the wood floor scratched. The cupboards looked like the kind that would stick. Nothing was neat; there was detritus of Malfoy everywhere. Piles of parchment were rolling themselves in scrolls in the corner; there were socks folding themselves. Portraits hung haphazardly, and one was Lucius Malfoy, who frowned sternly at Harry and walked out of the frame. The hat rack looked like it might be violent.

Harry could begin to understand why Malfoy got soppy over Molly Weasley. Harry should have known; Malfoy’s desk was like this on a smaller scale. There were always strange odds and ends on it—a stuffed hedgehog, a lantern, a ceramic vessel that looked like birch, a license plate. These things always looked haphazard among stacks and stacks of papers, assorted scrolls, and documents bundled with brown string. Malfoy always claimed he had everything in order, and slapped at Harry when Harry moved things.

“I’m surprised to see you,” Malfoy said, after several moments of staring at Harry staring at his flat.

“Why?” Harry turned to face him, rather hoping Malfoy would suggest they simply forget yesterday. He thought that he could do this if only Malfoy would.

“Admittedly it wasn’t a trait of yours at Hogwarts, but ever since the Dark Lord died you’ve become quite talented at running off and hiding when you can’t handle something.”

“I did run off.” Harry took a step towards him. Malfoy looked like he wanted to take a step back, but didn’t. “May I see?”

“What?”

“Your . . .” Harry touched his own neck.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Malfoy jerked his collar, exposing a clean expanse of pale throat. “We are wizards, as you so often seem to forget.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said.

“I kissed you first.”

“I still . . . treated you badly.” 

“Do you mean because you ran away, or because you pushed me up against a wall?”

“Both.”

Malfoy moved away, his face in profile. “I knew you were going to be like this. I’m not an idiot, alright?”

“I know you’re not.”

“No, you don’t. And I should hate you for that, but instead I forgive you, because you’re too dumb to even know when you’re being dumb for thinking other people are dumb. You can’t help you’re a Gryffindor.”

Harry's lips twisted. “Thanks for that.”

“I kissed you first.” Malfoy held up a hand as if Harry was going to protest again, which Harry was. “I told you I’d been thinking about . . . blokes like that, and I told you you were the only one I knew who . . . felt like that, I _told_ you I wanted to try it.”

Harry felt like he could have been knocked over by a feather. “Maybe you're completely terrible at propositioning someone. What kind of come on was that?”

“The sexy kind?”

There was silence. They looked at each other. “Well, you’re here; do you want a drink?” Malfoy said, shifting uncomfortably.

“Do you have pumpkin juice?” Harry asked, and followed Malfoy into the kitchen.

“I have . . . um. Ketchup. I’ll make some hot chocolate, hold on.”

“Okay.” Harry sat down at his breakfast table.

“I didn’t find out.” Malfoy fussed with the cocoa.

“Find out what?” Harry was distracted by the fact Malfoy’s table top was Formica. Formica seemed so Muggle.

Malfoy fussed with the milk next. “I didn’t find out whether I was gay. Yet.”

“Yet?” The Formica abruptly took back seat.

“I still don’t know, do I? It was just a kiss. And you messed that one up.” Malfoy sounded like he was talking about the weather. “I was surprised, and you—” Harry had marked him, but Malfoy didn’t say it. 

Ginny had liked the marks, sometimes, had even liked it when Harry got rough. People after her had liked it too. But there was a line between some kinds of possessive behavior and . . . other kinds, Harry knew. And Harry knew he was over the line, even if others didn’t know it.

Harry didn’t know whether Malfoy knew. Malfoy had never seemed to care much what Harry’s problems were at Chimera Downs. Harry didn’t know if Malfoy had liked it when Harry got rough or not, and he didn’t plan on finding out.

“Look,” Malfoy saidd, “I didn’t mean to . . . I hadn’t planned on—on doing that. Kissing you, I mean,” he said, as though forcing himself to say it. “It was just—you said—I wanted to . . .”

“You said you propositioned me before.”

“I was curious. I . . . you said I was supposed to try.” 

Harry understood that. He thought that it was good. Malfoy was trying to get things sorted, and that was—that was good. He wasn’t going about finding out if he was interested in men the way that Harry had, and that was good, too. But this—what Malfoy was doing—was new, and fragile. He needed someone who could show him . . . gentleness, and experience also. Someone who could help him. Someone who wasn’t Harry.

Harry realized this with sudden firmness. Malfoy was his friend, and he didn’t want to ruin that, just because of—of the monster in his chest. Because of the things that darkness wanted, and the way that Malfoy had tasted under him. 

“I can’t,” Harry said.

“I know.” Malfoy walked back to fill his own mug. “I already knew that. I mean, I had decided against it. I told you that. It—it was an accident, purely circumstantial, you know how it is, when you can’t help—” Malfoy broke off abruptly, and clattered the kettle back on the cooker. “Don’t think I was pinning every hope of experimentation I had on you.”

“Thank you.” 

Harry drank the chocolate. Then he sighed and stood up, heading for the whipped cream. Malfoy clung to the kettle as if it would protect him. 

“There are other reasons it wouldn’t be a good idea,” Harry said, standing beside Malfoy now.

Malfoy snorted. “Of course. There’s always the possibility you’ll say, ‘I’m sorry’ and run away.”

“About that, I already said—”

“That you were sorry?” Malfoy snorted again. Then he registered the expression on Harry’s face, and sighed. Looking away, he scrubbed his face. “It’s alright. I get it.”

“Maybe you don’t.”

“Don’t I? Let me guess. You hied to your hermitage, and threw things around. Or unrooted tree stumps and held a little light show. Then your own penchant for drama wore you out; you cried a lot and put all the tree stumps back, and thought about how you were just too sad and savior-of-the-worldish too ever love anyone or touch anyone or need anyone or desire me. Something about how you’re special, and making a sacrifice, saving the world just by not screwing around, because heaven help you if you _did_ screw around, there would be tree stumps everywhere. Am I warm?”

Harry looked down into his cup. “I guess. Warm as you ever are.”

Malfoy put his mug down, turned around and faced him. “I thought you—I thought you might not come back. I thought I might not see you again, that—that you were going to be a real prat about everything. I thought I wouldn't see you again.” 

Harry looked up. “You’re my friend.”

The line appeared beside Malfoy’s mouth. “Well, it’s true that we are dire rivals under temporary truce, as circumstance dictates. We are—”

Harry grabbed his wrist. Malfoy’s eyes widened again. “Don’t joke right now. We’re friends. You told me to act like a man, and I’m trying.”

Malfoy’s eyes proceeded to get larger. For the first time, Harry noticed the gray was circled at the edges by narrow rings of blue. “Harry, you—” Malfoy began. “You.” Malfoy licked his lips.

Harry dropped his wrist.

“You should learn to control your grabby hands.”

“Yes,” Harry said, because it was all about control. If he could learn it, master it enough, he could do this. He could touch and it would not be dangerous. He could have what Malfoy was talking about, maybe even something more, either with Malfoy or someone else he came to care about. He could do it. He just had to be in control first.

He somehow had to explain. “Malfoy,” he began.

“No.” Malfoy looked away again. “I already know what you’re going to say. And I already said it’s fine.”

“But if you want—”

Malfoy squared his shoulders in that heartbreaking way he had, and turned to face Harry as though to face an assault. “Let me put this in a language you can understand.” His voice was very crisp, the way it got when he decided crazy things. “I do not resent you for not wanting to—to make—to have—for not wanting to fuck around. You needn’t worry about me harboring a grudge about it. Or a crush. You don’t need to worry about my ickle feelings or that I feel any differently about you. You needn’t worry about me at all, because you are a crazy person, and have enough things to worry about.”

Harry opened his mouth to protest.

“I care about you,” Malfoy said, which made Harry shut his mouth with a sharp click. “I care about you because you are my friend, something like this can’t come between us. Ever, because if it does, I will hunt it down. Now, shake my hand.”

Malfoy stuck his hand out and Harry stared at it. He felt his heart in his throat, but did not feel the monster in his chest.

That did not mean there was not danger. Harry knew that if he took this feeling too far, he could end up destroying Draco Malfoy. He could get jealous over Malfoy; he could get violent; he could possess him, until only Harry remained. He could be all the things he didn’t want to be, all the things Malfoy had helped him move beyond.

In that moment, a choice opened up before him. He could walk away, as he had once done from Ginny, the Aurors, all his friends. He had done it to keep them safe, and he could keep Malfoy safe this way. The next option was to utterly give in, to consume Malfoy and himself in the inferno of his own possessiveness and power. 

Love or intimacy were too difficult, but Malfoy wasn’t asking for those. Malfoy was asking only for what he could give; he was asking for friendship. 

The third option was to walk the line between. 

Harry thought that he could try. He might be able to do it. Malfoy made him want to do it.

Malfoy was pulling back that hand and something was shutting down in his face before Harry made a wild grab for Malfoy’s hand. 

“No need to cripple me, Potter.” Malfoy he seemed amused.

“I just—um—you said, about grabbing you, I didn’t want it to be—”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Nor will there be sparks whenever we touch. And don’t think anything I just said will stop me from hexing you unconscious and stuffing you in an alley in which feral cats will lick off all your skin if you really deserve it. Now let go of my hand. Please.”

“Sure.”

“And get out.”

Harry looked at him in confusion. “I thought maybe we could—” He broke off, frowning. “Why aren’t you at work?” It was the middle of the day on a Tuesday; Harry hadn’t thought about it. He had come here after Chimera Downs as soon as he was sure he could hold all of himself in.

Malfoy looked lofty. “I have important things to do.”

“You always say that whenever you make excuses.”

“I’m making an excuse, then.” Malfoy smirked.

“But why? Are you sick?”

“Didn’t I say you didn’t have to worry?”

“That’s not how it works.” Harry looked around curiously, trying to see if he could divine a reason for Malfoy staying home. Maybe it was the sixty-seven things going on in his living room, but the thing about Malfoy was he most likely always had sixty-seven things going on in his living-room, even when he was gone at work.

Malfoy was rolling his eyes. “Don’t you think you could tell if I was sick?”

Harry thought about that day setting up his flat—what Malfoy had been asking, and Harry hadn’t realized. There were so many things Malfoy kept a secret, and he still didn’t talk about his parents. “Not for certain, no.”

Malfoy gave him an exasperated look. “I’m fine.”

“But why aren’t you at work?”

“Because I want to be by myself! Don’t you ever feel that way?”

Harry had felt that way, and Malfoy knew it. Harry had thought he needed to be alone at Chimera Downs, until it had turned out that was not what he needed at all.

“I’ll leave,” Harry said.

Malfoy briefly closed his eyes, then opened them. “Thank you.”

Harry had come with the intention of telling Malfoy he couldn’t give him what he wanted. Leaving, Harry was beginning to think he could try at least to give Malfoy needed. He could try like hell.

Malfoy had done as much for him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Thanks to [personal profile] kjp_013 for the super quick beta.

Harry saw Malfoy even more after that.

Harry liked to come by the Ministry for lunch, where he could meet with Malfoy and Hermione.

“Don’t tell Ron about our clandestine meetings,” Malfoy once said when they were in a bistro.

Hermione had just rolled her eyes. “It’s hard for him to get away from the shop at lunch time.”

“Then don’t tell Harry.”

“I’m sitting right here,” said Harry.

“What doesn’t he want you to know?” Hermione asked Harry.

“About our affair,” said Malfoy. “Our monkey affair.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. Do I want to know about our monkey affair?”

“You really don’t,” said Harry.

Malfoy smiled winningly. “Pretty much everyone wants to know about our monkey affair.”

“I do find myself strangely intrigued,” said Hermione.

Malfoy beamed.

Harry frowned. “He has Scandinavians.”

“I have all types.”

“I never noticed.” Hermione was often very neutral when she spoke to Malfoy, except when she cracked up giggling. Malfoy always beamed those times, too.

“You were my first,” Malfoy told her.

Hermione blushed, which made Malfoy switch off the beaming in favor of a blazing smile of triumph.

Really, when you thought about it, Malfoy was such a flirt.

Before that day he’d kissed him, Harry hadn’t thought about it. He thought about it now.

He watched him with Hermione, with Teddy, at Quidditch. He watched him when they went to the pub and when Malfoy came over to Harry’s flat to watch television, which he claimed was better at Harry’s because Harry had a better set. Malfoy had picked it out.

It was becoming an obsession, watching Draco Malfoy. Harry supposed it had always been a habit with him. 

“Can I meet Sinclair?” he asked, the next time he came by for lunch and Malfoy was heading back to work. 

Malfoy talked about Sinclair more than he talked about other people. 

From Malfoy’s impressions, Harry would have guessed the Sinclair was wispy and slight, a small fellow with acne probably, and very poncy clothes like Percy, now that Percy was able to afford them. Upon meeting Sinclair, Harry supposed he needed to question the validity of Malfoy’s impressions. Harry never sounded as horribly moody as Malfoy always made him sound at any rate, and then there was Sinclair. 

Sinclair was an enormous bloke, taller than Malfoy even, and wider than three of Malfoy. He had a full beard like Hagrid’s, big burly arms like Hagrid’s, lumberjack clothing like Hagrid’s, and in fact all of him was a dark-skinned, smaller—though still enormous—version of Hagrid, which made Harry guess that Malfoy must not very much like Sinclair.

“This is the bloke with the Pygmy Puffs?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Puffs,” said Sinclair. “They were once Puffs.”

“Now you’ve done it,” Malfoy said.

Sinclair’s voice was just has high and soft as Malfoy had always made it, which was very shocking in that enormous body. It went on and on as Sinclair tried to explain the breeding tragedy of the Puff line, which had created the race of pygmies. Sinclair had pictures of Puffs hung up in his cube, and a model Puff paperweight, and a monthly Puff calendar. If they had been cats it could have been Umbridge’s cube, except with a seventeen stone man inside.

But Malfoy apparently knew all sorts of things about Puffs as well, for they were both talking about them with animation, and Sinclair was grinning as Malfoy discussed the line of Puff kings. Malfoy meanwhile appeared to be hanging off Sinclair’s every word, which was just how he was whenever he was around Hermione.

Harry coughed. “Puff kings?”

“Are you into Puffs at all?” Sinclair asked.

Harry coughed again. “No.”

“Draco knows all about them.” 

“I’m not an expert.” Malfoy paused. “We know more than most experts.”

“Experts!” said Sinclair in disgust. “We’re writing a paper.”

“You’re writing a paper,” Malfoy said. “I’m making it a _brilliant_ paper.”

Sinclair nodded in agreement. “Malfoy’s an authority on tons of creatures.”

Malfoy preened. “I am, rather.”

“Who are you, then?” Sinclair asked Harry.

“That’s my friend Harry,” Malfoy said. 

Sinclair looked surprised. Harry felt surprised. The only one who wasn’t surprised was Malfoy, who looked happy.

“Malfoy talks a lot about you,” Sinclair said. 

Harry’s surprise bordered on shock, along with something tight twisting in his chest. “Does he?”

“Yes. You’re rather different than I expected, though.”

“Am I,” Harry said, and the thing twisted tighter. It was the monster. It was going to—

“I thought that you would have—” Sinclair made a vague gesture. “A long dark coat. And wear only black.”

“He would if he’d thought of it,” said Malfoy, looking as though he wished Harry had thought of it really. “And he would stand on top of buildings. His coat would flutter in the night, and children in their houses would know that they were safe. Knowing a Champion of Justice watched over them.”

“My coats don’t flutter,” said Harry.

“Did you know Muggles carry mechanisms in their belts that shoot out ropes and various abseiling equipment?” Malfoy turned to Sinclair. “So they can get where they are going, despite not being able to fly. And Muggle auto-cars work like the Knight Bus; they can adjust their size, only it is a machine and not magic.”

“That’s not really true,” Harry told Sinclair, because apparently Malfoy had been watching Batman.

“It’s on the thing I told you about,” Malfoy said. “The television.”

“Malfoy does know quite a lot about Muggles.” Sinclair seemed rather apologetic.

Malfoy seemed smug. “I told him about the hand mixer.” 

Harry seemed like he might be getting a headache.

“Television sounds interesting,” Sinclair went on. “If only they could fit Puffs onto that tiny screen.”

“Cinemas have bigger screens. Maybe Malfoy will show you one one day.” Harry wondered if what looked like blatant affection on Malfoy’s part was actually ardent dislike, because otherwise Harry couldn’t think of a reason Malfoy would blanch at seeing a film with Sinclair, but Malfoy definitely looked paler.

Leeched of color like that, Malfoy never looked very nice. He wasn’t actually good looking, which Harry hadn’t noticed since Hogwarts. That certainly wasn’t how he had been thinking of Malfoy, who was all bright hair and twitchy smiles and long legs when Harry thought of him. Seeing him now as Sinclair might see him, significantly unhandsome, somehow only made that image brighter. Malfoy looked so very sharp, all angles, like he’d be brittle if you touched him.

“Maybe some time,” Sinclair was saying kindly to Malfoy, “when you’re not busy.”

Malfoy squared his shoulders, molding them into a sure, square form. For a moment, he looked inscrutably at Harry, and then politely turned to Sinclair. “I am not busy. Friday next.”

“Really?” said Sinclair.

“Why not?” Malfoy said carelessly, in his brisk way. “We could take Libanos and the kids, and go to a Muggle theater. They make the floors stick, so that you can’t leave. There is popcorn; it will be brilliant. I will show you how to use the Muggle money—”

“Are you sure?” said Sinclair, and that was when Harry realized Sinclair must have asked Malfoy before. Harry could imagine it, Sinclair asking Malfoy to the pub, Sinclair asking Malfoy to dinner, _why don’t you come over and meet Libanos and the kids_ , and Malfoy drawing himself up in his very posh and distancing way and saying things like, _I don’t know; I’m very busy; I have important things to do; perhaps another time._

Sinclair would have thought Malfoy was putting him off. Harry had thought he was putting him off when Malfoy had done it to him.

This was what Malfoy looked like when he was afraid, Harry realized. The look had changed significantly since Hogwarts.

“I can make time.” Malfoy spoke airily. “Libanos is so lovely. And the children adore me, really.”

“He met them at the Christmas party,” Sinclair told Harry.

“You went to the Christmas party?”

“I go to parties.” Malfoy’s voice was a little less crisp. “I’m a party animal.”

“He really isn’t,” said Sinclair. 

“I’m glad you went,” said Harry.

“I _like_ parties,” said Malfoy. 

“He thought there would be waltzing.” Sinclair smiled at Malfoy in an affectionate way. Malfoy appeared too pink to notice. “He brought crumb cake.” 

“Malfoy, you brought crumb cake?”

“That is what you do for parties, Potter. I would not expect someone as ill-bred as you to know.”

“Before that we thought he might be a vampire,” Sinclair went on.

“He is pasty,” Harry agreed.

“It was either that, or a government spy. Or he had a bird on the side. With him always being so busy.”

“He was busy for me as well,” Harry said, also looking at Malfoy.

“Really? For you?” Sinclair seemed surprised.

Malfoy was beginning to look hunted around the eyes. “I’m a very busy person!”

“Must be baking all that crumb cake,” Harry guessed. 

Sinclair said, “It was very good.”

“How come you never make me crumb cake, Malfoy?”

Malfoy flushed red and put his nose into the air. “I don’t have to be treated like this in my place of employ.” 

“Next Friday,” Sinclair said. “A film?”

For just the barest moment Malfoy hesitated. Harry said, “You wouldn’t want to disappoint Libanos and the kids. I hear they adore you.”

Malfoy’s nose was still in the air. “They do, rather.” He turned to Sinclair. “Then Friday. But we’re not bringing this delinquent.” He flapped a hand at Harry. “I’m sure he doesn’t even know _how_ to waltz.”

*

The more Harry watched Malfoy, the more it occurred to him Malfoy’s life wasn’t perfect. In fact, he seemed to be wearing rather thin. 

At first Harry worried the kiss thing was going to be a problem, but if anything, Malfoy seemed friendlier, as though knowing now where he stood, he didn’t have to wonder. He perked up when Harry popped by; he got content like a cat when he curled up on Harry’s floor to watch his television. He looked at Harry sometimes with a rather absent fondness Harry was fairly certain Malfoy would have wiped clean of his face had he known that it was there. He forgot more often than not to not sound affectionate when making use of insults.

But Malfoy was so tired sometimes, and there were circles under his eyes. He didn’t say anything about it, only held his shoulders more squarely. Harry of course tried asking if anything was wrong, but Malfoy only looked at him strangely and murmured, “Nothing; why do you ask?” Things would have been much easier if Malfoy hadn’t been so determined to appear perfect to the world.

The other week Ron had asked Harry over a game of wizarding chess, “How are things?”

“What do you mean how are things? I’m about to lose my queen.” Harry sighed and moved.

“Yeah, but . . .” Pursing his lips, Ron moved his rook, which slashed down the queen. “Check.”

“But what?” Harry put his knight in the line of attack.

Ron frowned. “I mean, how are things. Things like . . .” Ron looked up from the board, the game apparently having lost interest for him. “You know, mate, last year, you were gone a long time.”

Ron had never even mentioned it until now, and it was almost a whole year after he’d first come out of Chimera Downs. “I know,” was all Harry said.

Ron nodded, moving his bishop. They didn’t talk for a few minutes, trading pieces. Then Ron said suddenly, “How’s Malfoy?”

Harry looked up quickly. Ron appeared intent on the board. “Malfoy’s fine.”

“Mum likes him.” Ron moved his knight.

Harry took it with his rook. “Because he’s a suck up.”

Ron laughed, casually pushing his pawn to its final square. “He always was.”

Giving up, Harry tipped his king. “Why are you asking about Malfoy?”

Ron shrugged, sitting back. “Dunno. He’s your friend, isn’t he? And anyway, he’s someone to keep your eye on. Never know what he’s up to.”

Suddenly, Harry wanted to tell Ron about the accidental kissing, and the monster, and how hard it was to just go forward living life when the life he had known before had never been his to live. But Ron was sitting there drinking a butterbeer with all his casual grace and ease, and Harry wished even more that he could have conversations like this with Malfoy, conversations that went like this:

_How are you now? Because I was worried about you before._

And when he had gotten an answer, Ron had said, _And how are your friends? How is life?_

_How is it going, Malfoy?_

But Harry was used to conversations that went like this with Ron, where they didn’t have to say a thing and yet said everything. Malfoy wasn’t like that.

He wouldn’t like it to be like this, Harry knew, where he felt like Ron knew everything, all about him, and Harry knew everything too. 

“How’s Hugo?” Harry asked, and they went on talking about his family, while Ron answered the real questions that lay underneath.

*

Harry was thinking of this one day when he asked Malfoy, “How come you’ve never introduced me to Goyle and Parkinson? I introduced you to Ron and Hermione.”

Malfoy was at Harry’s flat to watch television again. “You didn’t introduce me,” he said, not taking his eyes from the tv. “I introduced myself, remember? On the train.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Come on, Malfoy. That was like fifteen years ago.”

Malfoy wore a scathing little frown. “You didn’t want to know my friends then.”

“You’re the one who started insulting Ron right from the go.”

Malfoy turned back to the tv. “As though you weren’t forming judgments about Vince and Greg the second you saw them.”

“Maybe I want to get to know them.”

“What for?”

Harry shrugged. “They’re your friends.”

When Malfoy turned to Harry, he was sneering in a way Harry hadn’t seen in a long time. “Want to judge them, Potter? Want to fling mud at us? How about some Polyjuice?”

“Come on, Malfoy. That was forever ago.”

“Does that really matter? Crabbe and Goyle wanted to kill you, you know. Parkinson wanted to serve you up to the Dark Lord.” Malfoy’s eyes blazed with anger in his sharp, pale face. “I was going to kill Dumbledore. Don’t you remember?”

“But you didn’t.”

“Want to know why? It was because I’m weak. Not because I developed a conscience, or because I thought it might be wrong. It’s because I wasn’t brave enough. Didn’t have the courage. And—”

“I won’t ask them over if you don’t want me to.”

Malfoy was livid. “I don’t like pity, Potter.”

“I don’t pity you.”

Malfoy hesitated. “Then what is it?”

Shrugging, Harry said, “I don’t know. I wanted to.”

“I don’t.” Malfoy hunched in on himself, looking pointy everywhere.

“Okay.” Harry pretended to go back to the files from Gringotts. He didn’t know why he’d mentioned Parkinson and Goyle at all, just that he’d been thinking about Ron.

Malfoy folded his legs up in front of him and put his chin on his knees, wrapped tight as though to keep the world out. He watched television like that for a while, and Harry thought he wasn’t actually watching. When finally Harry got engrossed in one of the Goblin clauses on one of the papers, Malfoy spoke again.

“You could go to Chigwell.”

“What?”

“Chigwell. It’s where the Goyles live.”

“You said,” Harry began.

“I said I didn’t want you inviting them here. I go down there every week or so. I could bring you with me.”

“Do you really want to?”

Malfoy didn’t look at him. “If you want to.”

Harry looked at him, the line of his neck, the turn of his jaw. He could see one ear, hair curling under it. Now that Malfoy was older, his hair wasn’t a perfect blond. Parts of it were dull as dishwater, not brown but not white either.

“I want to,” Harry said.

*

The Goyles’ house in Chigwell looked disconcertingly like the house on Privet Drive, with its brick chimney, straight shingles, and other houses all in a row on either side. It wasn’t where Harry had pictured the Goyles to be living at all.

Once they got closer, Harry began to notice that the details of these houses made them much different than Privet Drive. The neighbors had hedge-clippers going without someone holding them, and the house across the street had a garden full of Flutterby Bushes and Fanged Geraniums. 

The Goyles’ house had tiny statues clinging to the eaves and the corners of the gutter. They watched Malfoy and Harry start up the path, and stuck out their tongues. “Gargoyles,” Harry said. “Go figure.”

“They look sort of like you.” Malfoy stopped at the bottom of the path. “Now shut up and be nice, or we’ll just turn around and go right home.”

Malfoy had been stiff ever since they’d planned this, his narrow shoulders square and sharp. “Then can I invite them to my flat?”

“No. And if you behave like a prat, I’ll never take you anywhere again. You . . .” Malfoy took his arm, as though afraid Harry might go up without him, his expression serious. “You do know not to insult someone in their own home, don’t you?”

“Of course. That’s just common courtesy.”

“Okay.” Letting go, Malfoy straightened his robes. “You just never know with Gryffindors.”

“For instance,” Harry continued. “I would never tell someone in their own home that their face looks like the blast end of a Skrewt.”

“I’ve always been articulate.” Malfoy sounded pleased.

“I wouldn’t say anything like that that,” Harry pointed out.

“You’re hardly that colorful,” Malfoy said, walking up the path. “You’re a sort of beige. I am—I am a rainbow of wit and ingenuity.”

“And you don’t know if you’re gay.”

“Be silent,” Malfoy said, sounding whimsical, before pressing the Goyles’ bell.

*

On first sight after all these years, Parkinson and Goyle reminded Harry of the Dursleys. Parkinson was slender and slight next to Goyle, who was still built like a slowly bulging brickhouse. They were neither of them beautiful, which had grown more pronounced with time. Parkinson’s face was angular and shadowed, while Goyle’s sagged and opened to rather frog-like eyes, and a loose-looking mouth. 

“I see you actually brought him,” was the first thing Parkinson said. Her voice was high and girlish, with a horrible little giggle Harry vaguely remembered from school.

“It’s Potter,” Goyle said. They had obviously been informed of Harry’s coming, but Goyle still looked surprised, his voice slow and thick.

Harry wondered if, like the Dursleys, Goyle made Parkinson bring him butterbeers as he listened to Quidditch on the wire, while Parkinson cleaned and cleaned and Goyle never exerted himself to pick up a broom.

“Hello,” Harry said politely.

“Yes, hello,” Malfoy said beside him.

“Well, you might as well come in,” said Parkinson, and opened up the door.

“We weren’t sure he would actually bring you,” Goyle explained as they all came in. 

The inside of the house was very regular, with pictures in frames and a square hearth. There were big stuffed chairs and shelves of books that most likely never got read. At first, Harry started to feel it was more and more like Privet Drive, but then he saw all the pictures moved. The blanket on the chair was Slytherin colors, and over the hearth there were hooks for broomsticks. The books on the shelves were all magic ones, and the bony gray cat in the corner could have been a hundred years old.

“I’m still not convinced he’s not under some kind of spell,” Parkinson said as they came into the room. “You can sit here, Potter.”

“That’s how come we have to check to see,” Goyle said. He sounded apologetic for some reason.

“Check what?” Malfoy frowned.

The Goyles were still both standing, looking down at Harry, and as Malfoy looked from the couple to Harry, he began to look alarmed.

“Yes, er,” said Harry, “check what?”

“I see you’re still a scarhead,” Parkinson said, frowning down. “Check.”

“Hey, do you want something to drink?” Goyle asked.

“Harry Potter,” Parkinson said shrilly. “Are you still a specky git? Check.”

Harry looked around for a way to escape. Malfoy was standing at the mouth of the corridor. He looked very pale, his mouth held tight in that way it got when he was unhappy, the way that Harry didn’t like. Harry turned uncertainly back to the Goyles.

“How about some wine?” Goyle said.

“Gregory, stop,” Parkinson said, whirling on him. “Your inquisitioning sucks.”

“Oh,” Goyle said, and turned to Harry. “Um, Potter. Have you . . . got Draco under a spell? Like, an evil dark one? I’ve been meaning to ask you that ever since Draco first started, you know, going on and on about you.”

“Really,” Parkinson said, gesturing at Harry, who was looking from one to the other helplessly. “He’s a Gryffindor.”

“Gryffindors can be evil and dark,” Goyle said. “There’s nothing that says Gryffindors are automatically good or anything, or that Syltherin is automatically dark.”

“Am too automatically dark,” Parkinson said, and turned back to Harry. “What do you think about Draco Malfoy?”

“I’m hoping he’s going to get me out of this?” Harry glanced over at Malfoy. “I don’t really know what’s going on.”

Malfoy looked as though he would be sick. “I didn’t know they were going to—”

“No one expects the Goyles’ Inqu—”

“That’s enough, Pansy,” Malfoy snapped.

“Right,” Goyle agreed. “Do you like roast?”

“It’s our favorite Muggle show,” Parkinson said.

“Er, roast?” Harry asked. 

Parkinson looked appalled. 

“Don’t,” Malfoy said in a warning voice to Parkinson.

Parkinson rolled her eyes. “Do you think Draco is controlling and manipulative and thinks entirely too much of himself?”

“What?” Harry said. “No. I mean, sometimes.”

Malfoy whirled on him. “Thank you, Potter.”

“You do give a lot of unsolicited advice,” Harry said.

“Why can’t it all just stop?” Malfoy asked. He looked ghastly.

“That’s what we’re having, Salisbury steak,” Goyle went on.

“Questions, Greg,” Pansy said. “In the form of questions!”

“Right,” Goyle said again. “Potatoes?”

Parkinson turned back to Harry, who felt a little like he was watching a Muggle tennis match. “Are you frightened, Potter?”

“A little?”

“Excellent,” Goyle said, beaming. “One last final question, then. Blueberry pie, or black?”

“I like blackberry,” Harry said.

“Good,” said Goyle.

“Are you quite done?” Malfoy said, sounding cold.

“Yes,” said Parkinson. “We have mead and daisywine, too, if you want it.”

“That’s nice.” Malfoy finally came into the room. He didn’t quite look at Harry. “I think this was a mistake.”

“What?” Harry said. “No. It’s fine.” After all, Ron had done much the same to Malfoy when Harry had first brought him.

“Someone’s touchy.” Parkinson frowned, picked up a plate of exploding chocolates, and offered them to Harry.

“There’s pie,” said Goyle.

“Thank you,” Harry said, and took a chocolate. It exploded into cream and cherries in his mouth.

Malfoy came to him, looking so furious Harry wondered whether he’d spoiled some kind of Pureblood protocol where you didn’t eat before your host, or something like that. His hand clamped over Harry’s wrist, and he leaned into Harry’s ear. “We can leave.”

Harry tried to swallow his chocolate. “Did I do something—”

Malfoy’s face instantly softened. “No.” He loosened his hand on Harry’s wrist, but didn’t take it away. “No, Harry. It’s just—they’re being so—”

Goyle lumbered across the room. “I’ve got to check on the steak.”

Parkinson put down the plate of chocolates. “Have you heard Succubus Soul Stealers’ latest album?” she asked, a trifle loudly. “It’s amazing.”

“Afraid not,” said Harry. 

Malfoy gave Harry a strange, unfathomable look, and let go of his wrist.

“Don’t loom,” Parkinson told Malfoy. Malfoy straightened up, but didn’t move away, as though he thought he could be some kind of shield. “You know I hate it when you loom. I really like the song, ‘The World Can Just Avada Kedavra’.”

“I like Celestina Warbeck,” Harry said.

Parkinson’s eyes were in danger of coming out of her head. “ _Do_ you?” she said, sounding delighted.

“Pansy,” said Malfoy.

“Yeah.” Harry looked uncertainly at Malfoy. “So you don’t like Muggle rock?”

“Sting?” Parkinson waved a dismissive hand. Suddenly Harry wondered if she had gotten that gesture from Malfoy, or whether Malfoy had actually gotten it from her.   
“I like Disembowlment and the Gorguts. They’re Muggle. And Cephalic Carnage.”

“Those sound interesting.”

Parkinson perked up. “They do, rather, don’t they?”

“What sort of music is that?”

“Death metal. Do you care for it?”

“I can’t say as I’ve heard it before.”

“Oh, but it’s divine. Shall I loan some to you?”

Harry was proud that they seemed to be acting perfectly civil, yet Malfoy looked spikier than ever.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” said Goyle.

“What about my muffins?” 

“Muffins?” Goyle looked blankly at Parkinson. “Oh. I forgot the muffins.”

“How could you forget my muffins?” Parkinson was incensed. “Go and check my muffins, Gregory.”

Goyle turned away, and within a few seconds, came back. “I don’t know how to check muffins,” he said sheepishly.

“Muffins are like Hufflepuffs,” Parkinson told him. “You poke them with a stick.”

Goyle went away, and Parkinson said something else about a band called Decapitation and making a mix tape, and then Goyle came back. “I poked them with a stick,” he said. “Now they have holes. Does that mean they’re done?”

Parkinson threw her hands up and went into the kitchen.

“I’ll help,” said Malfoy, and went after her. Somehow the expression on his face did not lead Harry to think he’d be having one of his kitchen conversations that ended up with him looking like he’d won the House Cup afterwards.

Goyle was left shifting in the doorway. “Er.”

Harry looked over at him. He had taken off his robe, probably due to the heat of the kitchen. He had on a t-shirt underneath that read, “We went to Disneyland and all I got was this t-shirt.”

“Nice shirt,” said Harry.

“Got it in France,” Goyle said proudly. “On our honeymoon.”

“Isn’t Disneyland Muggle?” Harry asked.

“Oh yes,” Goyle said. “It’s horrible. Have you been on the ‘it’s a small world’ ride?”

“I’ve never been to Disneyland.”

“It has robots from different countries. Say, you were raised by Muggles. Can you tell me how robots work?”

Parkinson came back out of the kitchen in a frilly apron that reminded Harry sickeningly of Petunia. Under it, though, she had taken off her robes. Instead of something floral printed as Petunia would have worn, she wore something black and very severe that went all the way up her neck and made her body look even more angular than it was. That reminded Harry of Snape. 

Malfoy meanwhile had drawn a mask over his face. He glanced at Harry, but Harry couldn’t interpret his expression, and Malfoy looked away. “Dinner is ready!” Parkinson announced with determined gaiety. “Don’t worry. Malfoy didn’t help.”

Dinner consisted of roast and muffins, peas and sweetcorn and potatoes with some strange sauce Harry didn’t know, but that tasted good.

“Have you ever noticed sweetcorn looks like teeth?” Goyle asked. “Of course, they’re not the right color. Unless you don’t brush quite—”

“Quidditch,” said Parkinson, in a suddenly decisive tone.

Malfoy kept glancing at Harry in that inscrutable way.

“Do you follow Quidditch, Potter?” Parkinson went on.

“Some,” said Harry.

“The Harpies are the best.” Parkinson seemed to think this was a mere statement of fact. 

Malfoy glanced at Harry again, and this time Harry knew exactly what he was thinking. “Yeah,” Harry said. “Though Malfoy likes the Cannons.”

Goyle seemed confused. “Why would anyone like the Cannons?”

“The Harpies have that Seeker,” said Parkinson. “She’s the reason they win anything at all. The rest of that team hasn’t got even half the talent she has.”

“Pansy has a crush, rather,” Goyle said.

“Pfft, on a Weasley,” said Parkinson, then added thoughtfully, “She’s the fittest witch I’ve ever seen.”

“Except for her elbows,” Goyle said. “Pansy’s got the fittest elbows.”

Harry couldn’t actually believe they were having this conversation.

Malfoy, apparently could. “I thought you said there was pie,” he said tightly.

“There is.” Parkinson looked pleased. “Gregory, bring us pie.”

“Okay,” Goyle said, and started clearing plates. “Do you want ice cream, Potter?”

While Goyle went and got the pie, Harry drank the rest of his glass of wine. “I thought you would have had house-elves,” he said, finally putting his finger on maybe why it was so strange that Parkinson had cooked muffins, and Gregory Goyle was in the kitchen getting Harry Potter ice cream.

Parkinson turned to Malfoy accusingly. “You told us he had half a brain.”

Malfoy frowned. “I never said he used it.”

It was then Harry remembered how the Goyles and the Parkinsons had been stripped of their estates. The Malfoys had too, but Harry had had time to get used to that.

“Anyway, isn’t that against Granger’s laws?” Parkinson asked.

“She hasn’t gotten them passed,” Harry said. “And she’s a Weasley.” 

“Right,” Parkinson said. “I forgot. And there’s a rugrat. How is it—he doing, by the by?”

“My godson is fine.” Harry paused. “Thank you.”

“See,” Parkinson said pointedly to Malfoy. “We can be polite.”

“I never said,” Malfoy began, but then Goyle came in with the pie and ice cream.

“Have you ever wondered why we call a Quaffle a Quaffle?” Goyle asked, after he had passed out the plates and they were eating. “Why not just a ball? How about a Snitch? It isn’t like they snitch at all.”

“It’s archaic,” Malfoy said. “Snitches used to be used to send secret messages. That’s why they’re so hard to catch.”

“So they couldn’t get intercepted,” Parkinson supplied. “That’s the problem, of course. If you do intercept them, they just blab to anyone. Got no guts, those.”

Malfoy stared steadfastly at his plate.

Harry looked at him, and said into the silence, “I got a message from a Snitch once.”

“Really?” Goyle looked interested. “What was it?”

“It told me I was going to die.”

There was another silence. Parkinson turned to Malfoy and raised both brows. “Is Potter always this dramatic?” Her voice was teasing.

Malfoy glanced at him again. Harry was beginning to wonder if maybe he was doing something wrong, since Malfoy kept looking at him and Harry couldn’t figure out what he meant by it. His eyes swept back to his plate. “Usually,” he murmured.

After they were done, Goyle got out brandy. Parkinson stood up. “Now it is time for the ladies to withdraw,” she announced, “while the men stay behind with their brandy. Possibly so that the ladies can smoke like chimneys and do lewd things to each other while talking about how daft the menfolk are. Come along, Draco.”

Malfoy slid his eyes toward Harry, and then stood up.

“You’re a lady?” Harry asked.

“If Pansy will be doing lewd things to me, I’ll be anything she wants.”

“Coming?” Parkinson was tapping her foot.

Malfoy gave Harry another unfathomable look, and went.

“Are they serious?” Harry asked, after they had left.

“Um.” Goyle thought for a while. “About the smoking? Probably.”

“I meant about the. You know. Lewdness.”

Goyle began to frown. “Pansy’s my wife.”

“Yes, but I thought—”

Goyle began to get worked up. “Fidelity might not mean much to Gryffindors—”

“No, I didn’t mean it that way.”

Goyle began to calm down. “Oh. Okay.”

There was a silence. Harry’s mind was working fast. He wanted to be polite, but the only thing he could think of was, “So, is Draco still making you transform into a girl?” and it just didn’t seem very amiable somehow. “So,” he said instead, after a while. “How are you and . . . Quidditch?” 

So they talked Quidditch for a while. Goyle was not only eloquent on the subject of Quidditch; he could even be passionate. And even though it didn’t quite feel like talking to Ron or Seamus or Dean—the way things used to be with Dean anyway—it didn’t feel like talking to Gregory Goyle, either.

“You were a good Beater in school,” Harry said. He realized he hadn’t thought about it very much before.

“Thanks. Those were really the days. Can’t handle the Bludger nearly so well now.”

“You still play?”

“Oh. Well, sometimes. Pansy too.”

“She never played at Hogwarts.” Harry was still surprised. “She said she didn’t care for it.”

“She doesn’t care for following pro teams,” Goyle said. “But she likes to play. She knows I like to and—besides, it’s something to do.”

“What position is she?”

“Oh. You know.” Goyle looked uncertain for some reason. “We sort of . . . bat the Bludgers back and forth.”

She wouldn’t actually play a position, Harry realized. Like Malfoy, Goyle and Parkinson probably had a limited number of people with whom they might play Quidditch. 

“Sometimes Malfoy plays with us.” Goyle sounded almost defensive. “Then he and Pansy seek. And I beat on both, so it’s a sort of three-way play. Pansy’s diverse. She could’ve been a stand-by player, if she’d wanted.”

“You could play with us.” Harry didn’t know where the sudden impulse came from, or why he acted on it. “We play every fortnight. Just a few of us, nothing serious. If Parkinson can play any position, our side needs a Chaser periodically, and Dean’s team needs a Beater.”

Audrey was pregnant, and Quidditch was a bad idea in the final trimester. Molly said she knew from experience. George said he knew from experience any spawn of Percy’s was a bad idea; Percy said George was a bad idea, to which Malfoy said Weasleys in general were a bad idea, he knew that from experience, and Zacharias, who wanted to get on with the game, had agreed.

Still, it didn’t mean that inviting Goyle to play with them was a good idea, no matter how much Zacharias wanted to get on with Quidditch. It had been difficult enough getting them to play with Malfoy, and even if they seemed alright with Malfoy now, it didn’t mean they would be alright with the Goyles.

“Wow, that’s really great, Potter,” Goyle said. “Thanks.” He did look like he thought it was great for several moments, but gradually his face recovered its rather stolid expression. “It probably isn’t a good idea, though.”

“Malfoy plays.” Harry frowned, unsure of why he was pressing it. It was possibly because Goyle was wearing a t-shirt from Disneyland, or maybe it had something to do with Malfoy. “Look, if it’s because we’re Gryffindors, or were in the DA, or that sort of—”

“It’s not that.” Goyle sighed. “I mean, it’s Pansy. She would never. She doesn’t like . . .” He sighed again. “Well, also, she doesn’t like Granger. Or the Weasleys.”

Harry snorted. “Seemed to like Ginny well enough.”

“That’s because Mrs. Weasley-Thomas is brilliant,” Goyle said, almost as though apologizing.

“You don’t hate Hermione and the Weasleys too?”

“I haven’t got anything against them.” Goyle shrugged. Harry had always thought it made him look shiftless, as though he hadn’t a thought of his own. He wondered whether it was just that Goyle was agreeable.

“You don’t?” 

“Why should I? Oh,” Goyle said. “You mean because of at Hogwarts.”

“Yes, because of at Hogwarts.” Hearing Goyle refer to it like that, it sounded like centuries ago, rather than several years, and Harry felt kind of foolish for bringing it up at all.

“Mostly we were defending Draco. You three never singled me or Vince out the way you did him.”

“He singled us,” Harry began, but Goyle went on. 

“Though I think maybe you or someone was responsible for me waking up without my robes in a cupboard once in second year. But,” he continued, shrugging, “that was a long time ago.”

“Yeah.” Harry noticed for the first time that Goyle’s frog-eyes were quite friendly. “Hey, maybe we could do two on two.”

“Really?” Goyle perked up. “Wow. That’d be great.”

“Yeah,” said Harry.

Later, Goyle and Harry found Parkinson and Malfoy on their back patio, enveloped in a warming spell which only let in the briskest hint of night. Parkinson’s head looked like it was floating in the darkness; a floating white hand brought a slender cigarette holder to her mouth. The smoke spooled out of it to frame her face in a classic, black and white kind of way, and for the first time ever in his life, Harry found her pretty. 

Malfoy looked less pale and less classic. In fact, he looked very real, standing there next to Parkinson and her dramatic smoke. His skin was tinted pink, and his mouth had the line beside it. His eyes were very clear as he looked at Parkinson, and Harry thought that he must find her pretty, too.

Then Malfoy saw that Harry had come out, and the light in his eyes went away. The strange, expressionless mask he’d been wearing all evening returned.

“Hey Pansy,” said Goyle. “What have you been talking about?”

“Oh, the usual,” trilled Parkinson.

“Lucius?” asked Goyle. “Or Potter?”

Harry looked at Malfoy, who wouldn’t look at him.

Parkinson waved her hand again in the way that Malfoy had. “A little from column A, a little from column B. What have _you_ been talking about?”

Malfoy squared his shoulders and faced the night.

“Potter thought we might do two on two,” Goyle said, sounding pleased. “You know, with him versus Draco seeking, you and I beating. It’ll be brilliant.”

The line of Malfoy’s shoulders stiffened further, if that was at all possible.

“I get him!” Parkinson exclaimed.

“What?” Harry said, distracted by Malfoy’s backside.

“I get him, I called it,” Parkinson said. “You’re on my team, Potter.”

“What? You don’t even like me.”

“And Gregory does?” Parkinson said. “He’s a puppy; he likes everyone. Don’t you?” She turned on Goyle.

“I like you, so I must.”

“You’re obviously the best choice,” Parkinson told Harry, and turned on Malfoy. “You’re going down.” Then Harry had to wonder again whether it was Malfoy or Parkinson who had made that their favorite phrase first.

“Maybe Malfoy will catch the Snitch,” Harry tried, because Malfoy still wasn’t looking at him.

After a long, strung out moment, Malfoy finally turned around. “That’s—that’s very generous, Potter.” His tone was faintly ironic.

Harry frowned. “Malfoy, what’s got in to you?” 

Parkinson was looking at Malfoy in a sympathetic way, as if she knew exactly what had got into him. “He just doesn’t want to lose to me; that’s all,” she said quickly.

“I’m not going to lose.” Malfoy’s shoulders still were squared.

“We don’t have to if you don’t want,” Harry said, feeling like he was always saying that to Malfoy, because he could never understand what Malfoy did want.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malfoy said crisply, and tsked. “Goyle! Pay no attention to these bedlamites.”

“Hey,” Parkinson said. “I resent that.”

“This bedlamite and this slutty excuse for a sophisticate.”

“Hey—no, wait. I quite like that. Go on.”

“Goyle.” Malfoy’s voice lowered. “We must plan a scheme of under-handed lowdown dirty cheating the likes of which the world has never known before we joined our illustrious forces and—”

“We’ve joined forces before,” Goyle said. “At Hogwarts. Remember?”

Malfoy flapped a hand. “I said pay attention! Hey,” he said, turning to Harry. “Do you know where to get some Felix Felicis?”

“I do,” Harry said. 

“You are so dead,” Parkinson told Goyle and Malfoy. “And you, Harry Potter, are a consummate fraud, a veritable snake in the grass. I always knew it; I tried to tell them, and they insisted you were just pure and stupid, but I guessed at your secrets. I upheld your honor. I always knew you were a cheater.”

“Thanks?” said Harry.

*

Late that night Harry and Malfoy Apparated back from Chigwell to Harry’s flat. “Your friends are weird,” Harry said.

Malfoy wasn’t looking at him. He had still been rather silent, once he was done threatening to slay them at Quidditch. Harry still wasn’t sure what was up with him, why he had been so prickly when he and Goyle had come outside. Maybe Malfoy had been having an important conversation with Parkinson, and he’d resented the interruption. Maybe he really had been thinking Parkinson was pretty. Maybe he and Parkinson really did have lewd—

“My friends aren’t Weasleys, so of course there’s much to be said for them.”

Harry snorted and was going over toward the kitchen when Malfoy suddenly turned around and said, “Thank you.”

“What for?”

Malfoy had his shoulders hunched up. “For being . . . you were . . . kind.”

Harry took a step toward him, his brow furrowing. “What’re you talking about?”

“You were so . . . I mean, for instance, the Quidditch.”

“I asked them to play Quidditch because I thought it would be fun.”

Malfoy nodded. “Thank you.”

“For being what, normal? Human?”

“Well, yes, I mean, you know, sometimes you’re not very. You’re all, ‘must behave like a raving lunatic. Must gnash teeth. Must be feral animal of the woodlands and everything’. Sort of like a rabid dog, which—” He abruptly cut himself off, as though just becoming aware that words were coming out of his mouth.

“You’re thanking me for not being a rabid dog.”

Malfoy nodded. “Now you’re catching on.”

Harry grunted and turned away. “Thanks a lot. I’ve been really trying. I don’t even foam at the mouth any more. Really, it’s quite—”

Malfoy had followed him, and now caught his wrist. “Not everyone would have.” His eyes searched Harry’s face. “You acted like a human being. It’s just that not everyone would have.”

Harry faced him, annoyed. “It’s simple decency.”

“Decency’s never simple.” Malfoy’s hand was warm, gently encasing his wrist. “And not many people are. Not to me. Not since—they aren’t.”

The annoyance fell away. “Malfoy.” Harry wanted to put a hand on his shoulder, but somehow his hand moved toward Malfoy’s neck.

Malfoy flinched, and Harry hastily drew his hand away, barely brushing Draco’s throat. “You don’t need to worry,” Harry said thickly. He cleared his throat. “About me being decent, I mean. Not anymore.”

Malfoy nodded. “I just didn’t expect it.”

“You should,” said Harry. “You deserve more than that.”

Malfoy looked surprised, and then his eyes went very soft. “Harry,” he said.

Harry didn’t know why and he certainly didn’t mean it to, but his gaze drifted down to Malfoy’s mouth.

Swallowing, Malfoy pulled away. “Even if you’re not hermiting and throwing tree stumps, you really need to work on some things.”

“Really.” Harry swallowed also and looked away. “Great.”

“Yes.” Malfoy was nodding now. “You still need a girlfriend and you still kind of mumble when you talk to people. I was thinking we could try this potion—”

“For mumbling?”

“For your hair. It’s also still bad.”

“Why a girlfriend?”

“Because frankly, Harry, a goblinfriend is beyond your pay-grade. I’ve found this nice little witch who works in the office. She’d be perfect. She’s a little crazy, just like you like, brown eyes like the Weaselette—”

“That’s enough,” Harry said, and began to usher him out.

“But she breaks all the rules. I know you like that, and she—”

“Out,” Harry said, and pushed him.

“Fine. Don’t meet the love of your life. For that matter,” Malfoy added thoughtfully, “don’t have a life.”

“Goodnight, Malfoy.” Harry started to close the door.

“Harry.”

“What now?”

“I . . .” Malfoy stood there for several long moments with nothing to say, which was unusual for him. His eyes rapidly flicked over Harry’s face.

Harry could feel the monster, and he wanted to close the door. He could feel the shudder, the aching and the clawing; it had not been there since he had kissed—

Malfoy’s eyes, which had been so soft, changed just like iron shields. His features suddenly masked in the same way, his face white and narrow, his dark jacket drawn up tight around him. Then he said, “Good night,” perfunctorily and walked away.


	6. Chapter 6

After that Harry went to Romania to tame dragons with Charlie. He stayed for four months. He thought it might be better this way, what with having kissed Malfoy, and what Malfoy had said about decency.

Overseas Apparition was considered an extraordinary power, so Harry didn’t use it. He used the international Floo to Belgium, and then travelled by a magic train. He sent letters by international Owl, too, even though he could easily sent them anywhere in the world with a word.

Harry had letters from Ron and Hermione, Molly and Arthur, Teddy with the help of Andromeda. He wrote them all back, and then got into the business of learning about dragons.

Ron would have loved it and Malfoy would have hated it, never mind how Ron would have been afraid at first, while Malfoy would have been full of himself and confident. Once Charlie had showed them the ropes, Ron would have been fine. Malfoy would have probably run away screaming like a girl.

Harry found himself thinking a lot about what Malfoy would have said about the dragons. Hermione’s interest was intellectual; Ron’s interest was more along the lines of, “Wicked, Harry.” Teddy was mostly interested in the possibility that Harry might die (“What happens when one breathes on you? Can they melt your skin off? Can you live without skin?”) Molly’s interest was mostly the opposite (“Be careful, Harry”). 

Harry tended to think of dragons as terrifying and beautiful. Despite the time he spent with Charlie, he still thought of them that way—but Malfoy wouldn’t have. Malfoy would’ve pointed out that they were great big awkward lizards that belched and shit and licked their own eyes.

When Harry mentioned this, Charlie laughed and said, “You get too many trying to tame dragons that are dreamers, when what you need is pragmatism. They’re not fairy tales. They’re great hulking bird-crocodiles that’ll chew on any old things like a three year old, and then you have to know how to walk down its throat to activate its gag reflex if it eats something dangerous.”

“Yuck.”

“Yeah. They tend to be big and stupid, and need taking care of.” Charlie looked dreamy for a moment. “Aren’t they great?”

Malfoy would’ve had sharp and sarcastic things to say about Charlie, too, but somehow, he would have made it sound alright. Malfoy reluctantly admired Charlie, anyway. Harry wished he was articulate as Malfoy was so he could tell Charlie what a crazy lunatic freak he thought he was while still letting him know he thought he was completely cool. 

Malfoy hadn’t sent any Owls. Eventually, it occurred to Harry that he hadn’t sent Malfoy Owls, either. It was just that all his other friends had written to him, and he had replied, because that was what you did. He remembered how he hadn’t needed to ever ask his other friends to hang out either, because it had just sort of happened.

Maybe Malfoy didn’t like to initiate. Maybe he was waiting to see what Harry would do. Or maybe he just liked to make people work for it. In some ways, that was better. It would have been so easy to take Ron and Hermione for granted. Harry couldn’t take Malfoy for granted; he couldn’t just assume everything was alright because they always had been. He had to put some thought into it.

Harry was proud of it, he realized, his friendship with Malfoy. He’d made friends with Malfoy all on his own, and it hadn’t had anything to do with whose side was on whose or Voldemort or the war. It had just been because he—well, he liked Malfoy. He had chosen Malfoy just because he liked him. That was the way things were supposed to be, in a normal world.

Malfoy had chosen him too.

Harry tried not to think about kissing him. He was getting better, and thinking about that wouldn’t help. 

Instead he thought that when he got back maybe he could get Malfoy to talk about his parents, and that they could play Quidditch with Parkinson and Goyle, and Harry could invite Sinclair over for dinner with Libanos and the kids. They should spend more time with Teddy. They should go camping. They could go on a weekend trip. Malfoy could come to Romania. Harry should ask whether Malfoy was happy with his job, and his flat, and he should write more Owls.

_Malfoy,_ Harry wrote,

_The weather is very nice here in Romania._

_I don’t think you would like dragons. You would say they are very uncouth. Charlie says you would be good for them because you aren’t starry-eyed. I don’t know where Charlie gets off saying people aren’t starry-eyed about dragons; he’s the worst. Charlie is also uncouth but I think secretly you like it._

_How are you? How are Parkinson and Goyle? How is Sinclair? I hope you don’t come crying to me about Hermione again just because she’s gone and gotten preggers._

_Well, it looks like I’m almost out of room,_ he wrote in two-inch scrawl to take up the rest of the parchment. He had never been good at writing letters, _so I’ll say goodbye._

_Goodbye! Signed,  
Harry Potter_

_*_

_Harry,_

_I make no secret of liking Charles Weasley. Why should I? He’s the most badass person I know. And, for your information, I love dragons. Just, you know, not near me. What does dragon taming actually entail? Are there whips involved? Knowing Charles, there is no doubt toe-nail filing and scale clipping. I can’t imagine how bad a dragon’s breath smells._

_Please tell me you are making nice with the local vampires, by which I mean tell me that you are not getting eaten, and also that you are learning the latest fashions. Vampires are always hip to the latest fashions. At least tell me that you get out sometimes, and that Charles is not making you revert to your hermiting ways. Charles rather has a problem himself, if you think about it; he talks better to dragons than to people. But that is just his taste and Harry, don’t go getting any ideas. I know you’re a deviant but dragon-hybrid children have trouble getting accepted into society and your kids are going to have a hard enough time as it is._

_Go and see some castles. I enclosed pictures and maps. If it turns out you’ve only seen the inside of a dragon barn by the time you get through I will be most displeased._

_I heard the strangest thing the other day. It was a Muggle talking about Merlin. I thought I was going to have to call the Aurors in to Obliviate her, but I was roundly informed that Muggles know all about Merlin. Can you imagine? They even have Malory. Malory! They think it is all fiction, though, or based on a true story. They’ve written all sorts of other stories about it, too, and they’ve even made films! One has a boy who rather favors me, even if his name is Wart in the beginning. He has a foster brother who favors Ron, rather. If I ever get another Owl after Kevin I shall name him Archimedes._

_This is how one writes to the end of the parchment, Potter._

_Thank you for writing to me._

_Best,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_*_

_Malfoy,_

_You write to the end of the parchment by not answering any of my questions? Seriously, how are you?_

_I guess I’d heard of Merlin before Hogwarts. I’m not sure. I think I saw a movie, but no one favored you in it._

_Dragon wrangling can involve whips, but Charlie doesn’t like to use them. He says that’s animal cruelty. He does cut toe-nails and file scales, though. A lot of times he’s trying to release hurt ones into the wild. He likes them to be free. But some types of dragons like making friends with humans, so then you sort of learn how to communicate and if a dragon wants to he’ll let you ride it. It’s sort of like a hippogriff actually and no they wouldn’t scratch your arm off if you’d actually been nice to it._

_There aren’t many vampires. Or if there are they’re in hiding because they used to get hunted a lot around here. That’s what Charlie says._

_I went to some of the castles you suggested. I’m doing a lot of traveling and sight-seeing. It turns out there are lots of goblins here and mermaids too so I’ve been visiting them as well. And humans too, of course. I’m not a deviant. I’ve learned a little Romanian. I even went to a nightclub, once. You’ll be happy to know I was the worst dressed one there and also I can’t dance. But I had a great giant waitress! She says there are some giant colonies in Scandinavia. This was confusing for a while because I never thought there were that many people living in Scandinavia, but she actually meant colonies of giants. She said they moved there when the other giants went to fight for Voldemort. I think it would be fun to go there. Maybe Hagrid and Maxine would like to visit._

_Are you practising with Dean and the rest? I’m still waiting for you all to beat us at Quidditch. Plus you had better be practising with Goyle, because I have that Felix Felicis ready for Parkinson and I, not that we need it. How is Teddy doing? Tell me how you are._

_Best,_

_Harry_

_*_

_Harry,_

_Dragon wrangling sounds a lot more like dragon minding. That is so typical of a Weasley. No doubt he spoils them rotten. Do you have to wash their backs with a scrub brush? Clean between their toes? Do you at least get to feed them coal, or whatever it is they eat? Have you ridden one yet? Details, Potter._

_Well, what was the castle like? I’m sure it was more exciting than Hogwarts. British castles are second rate, anyway. I’ve enclosed more tourist information. There are casinos and an old village and river cruises and a famous wine._

_Are the mermaids as fishy there as they were in Cumbria? Giant waitresses—what will you think of next? I’ll try to find out more about the colonies in Scandinavia for you. As a liaison to the international office, I can officially correspond with foreign ministries. Ours has been on bad terms with the Grug east of Belarus, but maybe the Scandinavian ones have chosen their own Grugs. Giants used to keep humans as slaves, you know. That’s why wizards hate them. But if these ones didn’t fight with Voldemort maybe they’re not so bad._

_Let’s clear up something, though. Hagrid really shouldn’t have been showing us something that could maul us to death. Even if it was because I didn’t treat it right. I mean, in Muggle classes do they show you guns? No. Because some show-off is going to pick it up and want to shoot it, and maybe it’s my fault but I like to show off, Potter. And even if yes, I was being petty and vindictive about turning Hagrid in for having that dragon that one time, I was also terrified. What would happen when it grew up and killed us all? I’m sure we would have all been very sorry._

_Oh my god. Do you have to shovel dragon droppings?_

_With disgust,  
Draco_

_P.S. I’m fine. Pansy and Goyle are fine. Teddy is fine. Everything is fine._

_*_

_Malfoy,_

_Maybe you’re right about Hagrid. You still could have been nicer to him. You really do like Care for Magical Creatures, don’t you? Have you ever thought about teaching? You make it really interesting, you know._

_The mermaids here are more friendly, but maybe it’s because I already know a little Mermish. It’s a different dialect, but sort of similar. They have someone they call . . . well, it’s something like Sea Witch, and she is sort of like a priest. She knows more magic than the rest of them anyway, and is like a leader._

_The castle was really big. And made of stone. I’m sure Hermione could describe it for hours. The dungeons were kind of incredible, though. There were six rooms and they had a rack and a wheel and all kinds of things. One was this lady made out of metal and there were nooses all over the place! Filch would have loved it._

With Charlie’s help, Harry wrote an extensive page about taking care of dragons. He copied it for Hermione, because she would care. Personally, Harry thought it was kind of boring, partly because he was already doing it and partly because he’d never really liked writing. But Malfoy would be interested, and kept asking questions. Harry ended the letter with,

_And yes, sometimes I do have to shovel dragon dung. It’s not so bad. Sweaty work, though. And smelly._

_I keep asking how you are because I miss you._

_Best,  
Harry_

_*_

_Harry,_

_Thank you for the dragon details. I’m impressed you could write that much._

_I have heard of Sea Witches! This is a legend. The ones in Cumbria didn’t have Sea Witches. You must find out all about it and report back. I know that research hurts your brain but Harry, it’s for science! Magic science. The only kind there is, really. Whatever you do don’t trade your voice away. It’s a secret trick Sea Witches have._

_Of course you would see castles and only be able to describe in detail the instruments of torture, and not, you know, the flying buttresses or drawbridges or what have you. Honestly I worry for you sometimes. You’re so dark and brooding. If only you had a club foot. Then I would admire you so._

_Sinclair and I have published our paper. He ended up putting my name as co-author. I went on a date last Saturday. His name was Alfonse. It was fine._

_Tell Charles I said hello. I have enclosed further tourist materials. Make sure you try that wine I told you about; I can’t get my hands on it here, and though nightclubs are deplorable, I’m glad you went. I never told you, but no doubt it was good for you._

_Yours sincerely,  
Draco_

*

Harry put down the letter and tried to see straight. 

For the first time in a long time, Harry tried to think of the field. The moon hung low; the grass was high; the green swayed in the breeze, and Draco Malfoy came down . . .

Harry thought about Malfoy, his thin, shining hair, his gray eyes, his thin-lipped, haggard-looking mouth. The line at the side deepened, and he was smiling, and that was how Harry got past it—because Malfoy went on a date last Saturday. His name was Alfonse. It was fine.

Malfoy was making himself happy.

Harry had flat out told him they couldn’t be more than friends. It was Malfoy who had asked, who had been interested, but when Harry had told him he couldn’t give him any more than he was already, Malfoy had accepted it. He was moving on, and it was what Harry wanted.

Malfoy deserved someone splendid, someone who wouldn’t hurt him, someone who didn’t have a monster in his chest, someone who didn’t have to put up walls. Malfoy shouldn’t have to put up walls, Harry thought, because Malfoy was . . . well, so Malfoyish, with the line at the side of his mouth, and his bright eyes, and comical little impressions, and sarcastic comments, and enclosed packets of visitor info in all his Owls. 

Most of all Malfoy deserved to be happy. Harry had told him to reach for what he wanted, because Malfoy had told him that. Harry wanted Malfoy to do it, and if Malfoy was going in this direction without him, Harry could—he could live with it. It hurt inside his chest, but the monster wasn’t coming out, and Harry could do this. He could be a friend. He could be the best friend ever; he could let Malfoy be happy.

Of course if this Alfonse character hurt Draco Harry might—well, then there might be problems. But it wouldn’t be as it had been with Dean Thomas, who was kind and had cared for Ginny, and Harry hadn’t even been able to let him get near her. Instead, Harry would stand politely by. He would stand by and because he was standing by, he would know he had succeeded.

He had finally kept the monster down, and replaced it with a field, and Draco Malfoy coming down.

*

_Malfoy,_

_Charlie helped me write some of the dragon stuff. As you probably guessed._

_The Sea Witch hasn’t tried to steal my voice. She’s terribly interested in submarines, though. I think she wants one, and doesn’t understand that you can’t just . . . you know, buy one. In particular she likes the idea of periscopes, I think. I’ve given her my Sneakoscope. I don’t need to carry one anymore; I thought you should know._

_Congratulations on your paper. I’m glad you were co-author. Do you have plans on publishing anymore? Because remember it was you who made fun of me when you thought I wanted to be a writer. Have there been any comments or things? When Hermione published her first paper she was very concerned about critical acclaim, or whatever. She says academics are ruthless. But you’re pretty ruthless so I imagine you’ll be fine._

_I’ve taken pictures of more castles for you since you were dissatisfied with my descriptions. I’ll have you know that I went to another castle recently and there was a large, spindle-like parapet, a defunct draw-bridge, a secret stone passageway and tapestries from the fourteenth century. Plus I found a room like the Room of Requirement and it also has knights’ armour that go around and keep the place clean in the spaces Muggle tourists can’t see. There’s a rectangular barbican and these balconies called pechnazes. I still don’t know what flying buttresses are, though._

_I’m glad your date went fine. Maybe you can introduce me to him when I get back._

_How are you?_

_Best,  
Harry_

_*_

_Harry,_

_Don’t sound so proud of yourself. I know for a fact that many of those phrases were stolen right off the Bran architecture tour guide I sent you. Did you forget? I sent it to you. Plus the wizarding specs are also in the tour guide if you know where to look, but I’m guessing you didn’t bother to find that out, so kudos to finding it out on your own. Here’s a hint. Flying buttresses don’t fly._

_I like the pictures. Pansy likes them too. Greg mostly just wonders what the food is like there, and whether dragons like macaroons. You just never know with Greg._

_Enclosed is an Extendable Eye from Wizard’s Wheezes for Miss Sea Witch. Pass along my regards. Endear me to her—you can mention my assets, my manners, my—lie, okay? I’d like to be on good terms with a Sea Witch, even if she’s too far away for me to visit._

_There has been high critical acclaim for our paper. Needless to say, Potter. Of course, Granger being worried about critical acclaim for her papers is just like Granger being worried about NEWTS. Oh, lord. Don’t tell me Granger was worried about her NEWTS? Typical. What a show off._

_I’m still fine, Harry. When are you coming home?_

_Yours sincerely,  
Draco_

_*_

_Malfoy,_

_How do you know if I sound proud of myself? It was an Owl._

_I’m glad to hear the Goyles are well. Even if you didn’t say so._

_Bettina (that’s the Sea Witch) appreciates your eye and wishes you to have this mollusk (enclosed). I don’t know what it’s for. I didn’t ask. It creeps me out, personally, but I think you have a new underwater penpal. They have messenger fish, you know. But they don’t have paper._

_Congratulations on your critical acclaim. You’re right, I should have known._

_I’m coming home soon. I’m looking forward to seeing your pointy face. It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Almost too long._

_Best,  
Harry_

*

When Harry got back from Romania, a large group of friends met him in his flat. Hermione had organized the welcome home.

Harry noticed Malfoy wasn’t there within the first few minutes. At first he thought it might be because of the crowd—mostly Weasleys and the old DA. But Malfoy had become better acquainted with most of these people. They didn’t mind him so much anymore, and Hermione said he had been invited. Harry wondered what it was, whether it was Alfonse, whether it was something else, and felt something curl inside his chest that he had thought he had left behind somewhere in Romania, among mountains and mermaids and letters written to friends.

Thirty minutes later Malfoy showed up. The collar of his old navy greatcoat was turned up, and there was snow caught in his hair. Two spots high on his cheeks were almost red from cold, and for a second Harry forgot that Malfoy wasn’t the only person in the room.

Then Malfoy looked up and grinned, and Harry could hear others still laughing, talking in the warm bright room. Harry went over to him as Malfoy gave Hermione a plastic grocery bag.

Giving the bag to Ron, Hermione put her hands on her swelling hips and said, “Well, where were you?”

“Sorry, Harry.” Malfoy’s grin had softened into a smile. “I was supposed to get the ice cream, but I got distracted.”

“Distracted.” Ron snorted. “That’s what you are.”

“Yes,” said Malfoy, that line deepening, so dear, on the side of his mouth. His eyes were still on Harry’s. “I thought it was sad how Muggles didn’t get ice cream, so I stopped at a Tesco to see what sweets they have instead.”

“You went to a Tesco?” said Ron.

“Yes, and I’ve found out something rather important,” said Malfoy, unbuttoning his coat. “It’s called Häagen-Dazs .”

“How come you thought Muggles didn’t have ice cream?” Harry watched stupidly as crystals of snow melted in Malfoy’s hair, which looked yellow in this light.

Malfoy was shrugging out of his coat. “Because ice cream is magical, Harry,” he said, quite innocently.

Harry laughed, and Malfoy beamed.

Hermione must have performed some most impressive spellwork on his flat to enable it to hold all the people. People were there with their whole families: George and Angelina and their youngest, Neville and Hannah, Luna with her newest boyfriend, Molly, Arthur. 

Andromeda was there looking distinctly uncomfortable among all the people, but she must have wanted to bring Teddy, and Harry realized when he talked to her—she had wanted to see him too. Malfoy hovered on her perimeter almost all the night long, sort of like a news helicopter or a salesman, until Harry wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to work so hard to win Andromeda’s favor any more. 

A little while later Harry realized Malfoy wasn’t trying to win anything; he was just sticking by her to introduce her to the people she didn’t know, and take up most the conversation. She had always been reserved.

Teddy, meanwhile, was making paper airplanes fly at Hugo, which Harry strongly suspected Malfoy had taught him how to do in his absence.

There was Firewhisky, mead, and daisy wine, and of course plenty of Häagen-Dazs, because when Malfoy lit upon new discoveries, he sort of went crazy. Then there was Firewhisky in the ice cream, and rather a lot of drunken singing—mostly George and Arthur. 

Harry snagged Malfoy’s arm at one point and dragged him over to one of the trunks. A case rather bigger than a breadbox was on top of one. “Open it,” Harry said.

Malfoy looked at it rather doubtfully and opened it. They were Bludgers.

“Dragon Bludgers,” Harry said. “They shoot fire.”

Ron came up over Harry’s shoulder and whistled low. “Are those dragon Bludgers? Smith is going to kill someone.”

“I got them for Malfoy.”

Ron whistled again. “Malfoy’s going to kill someone.”

Harry was looking at Malfoy, who was just looking down at the Bludgers. “I actually thought Parkinson and Goyle could kill people.” Harry paused, frowning. “Except for the, you know, killing part.”

“Goyle?” said Ron. “He still plays Quidditch? Wait, Parkinson plays Quidditch? Where’s Hermione?” Peeling away, Ron went in search of her.

Malfoy quietly shut the lid of the box. “Thank you,” he said. He still wasn’t looking up. “That’s very—considerate of you. Pansy and Greg will be touched. What am I talking about? They’ll be bloodthirsty. Bludgers that shoot fire. Who would have thought of—”

“Hey, Malfoy.” Harry touched his arm. “What’s wrong?”

“What?” Malfoy said, distracted. He finally looked at Harry. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re babbling.”

“I’m grateful. Can’t a guy be grateful? I mean, if he hasn’t seen someone in four months, it’s okay to have a little gratitude, and—” Malfoy abruptly shut his mouth. His eyes slid away as though they could not hold Harry’s, his lashes drifting down so that all Harry could see was the silver of them. Malfoy was looking at the box.

“Look here, Hermione,” said Ron. “Goyle.”

“Don’t see him.” Hermione was wiping her hands on a towel.

“No, I mean—Harry says he still plays Quidditch.”

Hermione was looking at Ron as though he was a crazy person. Which maybe he was. Or maybe he’d just had a lot of Firewhisky. He might have taken part in some of the singing. “That’s very nice, Ron.”

“What I mean is, they’re going to play with us!” announced Ron. “Malfoy, what position does Parkinson play?”

Malfoy seemed shocked. “I—what?”

“Sure,” said Ron, and swayed a little. He was drunk, but not really that drunk, Harry decided. He’d missed Ron a whole lot. “You know how we’re always short a Left Beater. Well, we’ve got Goyle!”

Hermione was looking at Ron doubtfully. “Yes,” she said very slowly, because Ron still might be a crazy person, even if he wasn’t all that drunk, “but those are dragon Bludgers.”

“Goyle is really friendly,” said Harry. “And he likes Disneyland.”

“Goyle went to Disneyland?”

Harry nodded. “On his honeymoon with Parkinson.”

Ron turned to Hermione. “How come we’ve never been to Disneyland?” 

“What position does Pansy play?” Hermione asked politely.

Malfoy looked at Harry, as if for help. “Well she—that is—she can Chase. Not that well, really.”

“Brilliant!” said Ron. “That’s what we need.”

“You think the other players will approve?” Malfoy asked. He seemed badly startled.

Ron shrugged. “You know what?” He appeared about to say something very wise. “ _Snape_ was in Slytherin.”

This seemed more along the lines of what Malfoy was expecting, and he squared his shoulders, as if to prepare for an assault. “He was.”

Ron was nodding. “Yeah. And Snape put the Sword of Gryffindor in the bottom of a freezing lake, and Harry had to go down and get it, and I had to save him. So you see,” he said, and put his arm around Harry. “It all works out.”

“Come along dearest,” said Hermione.

“Do you know what he’s talking about?” said Malfoy.

Harry smiled. “Yeah. I really do.”

“Hermione, I’m not actually drunk,” Ron told Hermione seriously. 

“I know,” said Hermione.

“House Unity,” Ron announced. “That’s what the Sorting Hat said. And you know what? Life’s too short, and we were kids. The future is going to be _brightest_ , that’s if I have anything to say about it. Which I do. So get Parkinson and Goyle to come play Quidditch with us. It will be _awesome_.”

“So this is why she likes you,” said Malfoy.

“I’m really not that drunk,” Ron told him.

“No,” Malfoy said quietly. “I really meant it.”

“Malfoy’s right, you know,” said Hermione. She was looking fondly up at Ron. “This is why I like you.”

“Oh,” said Ron. He thought about it, looking down at Hermione. Then he looked at Harry and Malfoy and appeared perturbed. He drew himself up and informed them, “Well, also I’m a sexy beast.”

They stared at him.

Ron deflated. “Okay. Maybe I’m a little drunk.”

“It’s okay.” Hermione was still glowing from that stuff Ron had said about House Unity and making futures. “I still like you anyway.”

Then Malfoy leaned in to talk in Harry’s ear, and his breath was quick and light, and it was a trick of whatever scent Malfoy used, but he just smelled like snow. “This would be a very bad time to tell him about the monkey thing,” Malfoy whispered, and then as soon as Harry had time to breathe him in, Malfoy wasn’t in his space any more.

In his absence, Harry felt that dark foreboding in his chest again, and wished he could be in Romania.

Ron was looking at them. “And then there’s you two.”

“Ron,” Hermione warned.

“What?”

“We are definitely leaving.”

Hermione swept Ron away, and Andromeda and Teddy came up to say goodbye. Then Harry started talking to Neville, and he lost sight of where Malfoy went for a while, though tracking Malfoy’s every movement hadn’t exactly been part of his plan. It should not have been part of his plan.

When Harry found him again, Malfoy and Luna were talking in a corner. Malfoy liked Luna, Harry remembered. Malfoy had said as much, once, but Luna was often out of the country, so he didn’t have time to see her much. Harry wouldn’t have thought Malfoy would see her at all, since the basis of Malfoy’s affection for her mostly seemed to be the fact that she’d been locked up in the Malfoy Manor cellar. Malfoy had been tasked with bringing them food and things, when Dobby was otherwise occupied. Malfoy had told Harry once that Luna had been kind.

It had seemed a strange thing for Malfoy to have said, that a prisoner had been kind. Harry hadn’t been able to ask about it, because Malfoy wouldn’t talk about it. He’d looked like he’d never even meant to say that much.

Seeing Malfoy now, with his head leaning in toward Luna’s, Harry thought that yes, Luna must have been kind, because Malfoy always looked like that with people who were kind. He looked thoughtful and attentive, as though he were seriously regarding every word. He looked that way with Teddy too, though. Maybe Malfoy just looked that way with crazy people, as well as kind people. 

Their blond heads were bent close together, and Malfoy must be close enough to her that Harry could guess exactly what the air Luna was breathing smelled like, tasted like—and for the first time in forever, the dark twist in his chest began to feel like clawing.

Harry didn’t know why it was happening. It had been building all evening, the moment Malfoy had shown up in that old battered coat with a plastic bag full of cartons of ice cream, snow caught in his hair. 

Maybe it had to do with the crowd, Harry thought. He hadn’t been hermiting away in Romania. He’d done what Malfoy said; he’d seen the sights; he’d even been to that night club, but it was true that he’d spent a lot of time with just Charlie and the dragons, and sometimes not even with Charlie, just dragons. 

There were a lot of people here tonight, and Harry had never been good with people. And so many of these people were the ones he loved, even if Ginny was conspicuously absent. She might even have come, had she not had to travel for a game the next night. These people were the reason Harry had gotten so afraid he might hurt someone; these were the people he had removed himself from in order not to hurt them.

Not Malfoy. Never Malfoy.

Malfoy, as though sensing Harry’s eyes on him, caught sight of him and smiled, then turned back to Luna and kept on talking. Someone moved and obscured Harry’s view.

Harry had to close his eyes and think of the field. The hills rolled green, and Malfoy was tall and slender, his chest narrow, his waist narrow, his hips narrow and long. His cheekbones were high and his eyes were gray, and on his arm there was a scar.

Harry remembered how after he had kissed Malfoy, he’d gone to apologize, and Malfoy had held out his hand for him to shake. Harry had decided he could do it, then. He could control all these feelings; he could keep the monster down; he could be what Malfoy needed.

They were friends.

Harry tried to think of the field again. This time he succeeded, and the monster stayed at bay.

Eventually Luna and her boyfriend went home; Neville went home; the Weasleys went home. They all went home, except for Malfoy, who was lingering, watching as Harry cleaned up the bottles and other rubbish.

“I told you that you shouldn’t have gone to Romania,” he said.

“Why shouldn’t I have?” Harry closed a suitcase and spelling it into a corner. He was tired, and he almost wished Malfoy hadn’t stayed.

“If all those ruddy rumors about you were true, you wouldn’t’ve had to. You’d’ve just been able to Apparate back every night. So.” Malfoy was looking at him blurrily. “You shouldn’t go away.” He stood up as Harry tried to tug out the cushion that’d been thrown behind him, and ended up standing very close. “You shouldn’t go that long.”

“You should have some water.”

Malfoy scowled. “I’m serious.”

“Okay.”

Malfoy swayed toward him. “Welcome back, Potter,” he breathed, hot on Harry’s cheek. He no longer smelled like snow; he’d had too much daisy wine.

He must have felt Harry go still, because he pulled back abruptly. “That’s an American Muggle television show, you know. Welcome back, Potter. Or something.”

“Okay. Are you alright to Apparate?”

Malfoy bristled. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Okay,” Harry said, one last time, and took Malfoy’s arm. He led him over to the door. He opened it, and then looked at Malfoy.

Malfoy’s eyes were bright, his cheeks quite pink. His lips were wet and shiny.

Harry let him go.

Draco sighed noisily. “I wish vampires had gotten you after all. Then you wouldn’t be so afraid of the dark.” Then he stepped over the threshold and Apparated away.

Harry thought of the field. The grass was green. The breeze was gentle. There was no road. And Draco Malfoy came down . . . .

*

A couple weeks after Harry came back from Romania, Harry and Malfoy chased the Snitch against each other for practice, and afterwards lay in a field. They were somewhere in Shropshire, on a pitch hidden from Muggles. Harry and his friends often used for games and practice.

The sun was out, though the air was crisp. They both had on warming charms, but the nip that snuck its way in felt good after flying, and the grass, though cold, was soft. 

Beside Harry, Malfoy’s breath was lengthening.

Malfoy had been all bright eyes and crowing triumph, chasing Harry. His hair was windswept and there had been red in his cheeks in the cold air. He laughed, carefree and happy, which was when Harry begun to realize Draco Malfoy was becoming a problem.

Harry wondered if that really was why he had gone to Romania in the first place. He wouldn’t have to see Malfoy, and Malfoy wouldn’t have to see him. Maybe Harry had been thinking, after the kiss, that he would give Malfoy a chance to move on. Malfoy had; after all there was Alfonse, and Harry had been glad, hadn’t he? 

Malfoy didn’t need anything else from him; Malfoy needed him to be his friend. He had believed Harry could do it. Harry wanted to do it.

Closing his eyes, Harry thought of the field. The grass was green, and Malfoy was in it, Malfoy with the scar on his arm, Malfoy walking down where there was no road.

Harry opened his eyes. “How are your parents?”

“My parents?” Malfoy asked, surprised. His voice came quickly after that. “They’re fine. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

“What for?”

“I dunno,” said Harry.

“Well.” Malfoy huffed. “They’re fine.”

“Where do they live now?”

“Why are you asking about my parents?” Malfoy sat up, sounded truly irritated. “They haven’t done anything. They mind their own business. My mother has a job, for heaven’s sake. They—”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Harry said. “I’m just wondering.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s—it’s not your business.”

Harry didn’t say anything for a while. “I wish my mother was alive,” he said eventually.

Malfoy made a sound. “Yes, Potter, we all wish—”

“No.” Harry sat up too. “I mean . . . I wish you could meet her. I think . . . she would have liked you.”

Malfoy looked away. “How do you know?” He sounded defensive. “You didn’t even know her.”

“I know. But I imagine her sometimes. I think your mum loves you very much.”

“Of course she does. She’s my _mother_.”

“I know, but . . . ugh.” Harry searched around for his glasses, and put them on. “Look, Draco. I just wanted to say, you can talk about your parents.”

Malfoy hunched his shoulders. “Of course I can. They’re my parents.”

“I mean. You can talk about anything. We don’t have to . . . just because you and I . . . You can talk about anything you want. You don’t have to be careful.”

“Careful?” Malfoy snorted. “Of you?”

“You don’t have to be. Not with me. We’re friends.”

“That again.” Malfoy was bristling all over, like a cat that had been splashed with water.

“Yes.”

Malfoy tilted up his nose. “What’s this about?”

Harry looked down. “Nothing. I just . . . I’m not going to stop being friends with you.”

“Lord.” Malfoy made an insane frittering gesture with his hand. “Lord, Potter. Was there some question?”

“No!” Harry didn’t know what Malfoy’s problem was. “No. I just . . . wanted to say it.”

“Oh.” Malfoy looked at him a little while, then flopped back in the grass. “You’re very dramatic, you know that?”

“Me?”

“Yes.” Malfoy put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. “I thought you were going to . . . well, never mind. You know,” he added, after several moments, “normal people don’t go around making declarations.”

“I don’t see why not.” Harry took off his glasses and lay back.

They lay there in silence a little while. “Potter,” Malfoy said eventually.

Harry didn’t answer him.

“Potter.” Malfoy rolled over and sat up, and Harry finally understood what Parkinson had meant about the looming. “Potter,” Malfoy said again. “Do you really think I’m afraid to say things to you in case you won’t be my friend?”

Harry groaned. “I don’t know, Malfoy.”

“What makes you think that?” Malfoy’s tone was insistent. He actually sounded a little like Teddy when Teddy really wanted ice cream.

“I don’t know. It just occurred to me. That’s all.”

“Why did it occur to you?”

“I don’t _know_.” Harry was still lying in the grass, his arm was over his eyes. “You’re always . . . you don’t ever talk about yourself.”

“I talk about myself.” His voice was odd. “I talk about myself all the time. Why wouldn’t I talk about myself? I’m splendid. A Malfoy never hesitates to talk about himself. How could I find a better subject?”

“Yeah, except you don’t.”

“Of course I do.”

“You don’t.”

“What do you mean?” 

Harry moved his arm and reluctantly put his glasses on again. Malfoy’s face looked strangely strung out, as though waiting for Harry's answer. Harry sighed again. “I already said. Your parents. Your life. You wrote me one stupid line about going out on a date and then—nothing. I had to prod you to get you to talk about the Goyles. You just don’t . . . .”

“Share?”

“Well,” Harry said defensively, “yeah.”

“You wanted to know whether I was dating anyone.”

“Yes. But—Malfoy, it’s more than that. I’m interested in you.”

Malfoy suddenly looked delighted. “You want me to talk about my feelings?”

Harry frowned. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. That’s brilliant.” Malfoy laughed, but he didn’t sound sarcastic at all. He did seem to find it very funny, however. His eyes were dancing; his throat tipped back; it was sunny outside; it was all very distracting. “Harry Potter wants me to talk about my feelings.”

“I don’t see how it’s funny,” Harry muttered.

“It’s not. It’s not; it’s very . . . sweet. Very . . . Hufflepuff. Trelawny, even. We should . . .” Malfoy brushed Harry’s shoulder in an absent sort of way. He was making fun of him, but it was not at all nasty, and Malfoy looked so happy—really happy, even laughing at him. He laughed again, and dropped his hand. “We should make daisy-chains, read tea leaves . . .”

“Whatever, Malfoy.”

“Hmm.” Malfoy’s smile resolving into a lazy smirk. His bright gray eyes met Harry’s, and then dropped down. They settled on Harry’s lips.

Malfoy licked his own lips. His tongue was pink, and Harry looked away.

“I was just trying to be nice,” Harry said.

Malfoy laughed again, very low and soft, then leaned in. “Harry Potter,” he whispered. “Nice.”

Malfoy’s breath landed on Harry’s ear, his neck, and then it felt like it kept going further down. Malfoy was close, and very bright, and he smelled like grass.

“Malfoy.”

“Hmm?” Malfoy was looking at him, seeming to be very distracted by the part where Harry’s ear met his head and neck.

Harry grabbed his glasses, put them on, and stood up. 

Malfoy looked up at him in surprise.

“It’s getting late.”

“Oh,” said Malfoy, and stood as well. He looked for his broom, and Harry went and got his own. “Harry,” Malfoy said, as they put their gear together.

“Yeah?” Harry asked warily, not turning around.

Malfoy’s voice was meditative. “Do you also like rainbows?”

Harry frowned and turned around after all. “What?”

“What about lily-pads, and little candied hearts?”

“What are you—”

“I’ll be sure to serve you only daisywine, and I’ll make sure Greg goes easy on you. I wouldn’t want things to be too rough for you, now that you’re such a sensitive bloke.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Shut it.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“Whatever, Malfoy.”

Malfoy grinned. “Goodbye Potter,” he said, as Harry Apparated away.

*

Some time the next day, Malfoy knocked on the door of Harry’s flat, and Harry let him in. He felt ashamed, realizing he’d been avoiding Malfoy a bit since coming back from Romania. Yesterday had been one of the few times they had spent time together alone.

“Hullo, Harry,” Malfoy said, and strode in.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, and shut the door.

Malfoy looked about, smiling as though unaware he was doing it. On Malfoy that smile looked soft and strange. At last he looked at Harry again. “Were you doing something tonight?”

“No.” Harry shrugged. “Testing one of George’s potions.”

Malfoy’s nose wrinkled. “Are you sure you want to work there? You’re taking your life into your hands, you know.”

“I don’t know. My other thought was spending time with centaurs for a while.”

“Always said you had a thing for magical creatures.” 

“There are some in the Middle East that are pretty interesting.”

Malfoy’s smile faded. “You said you weren’t going to go away again.”

“Yeah.” Harry turned from him. “I did say that.”

“So.” Malfoy’s tone was a little flatter. It had been so light before. “What’s the potion?”

“What?”

“You said you were testing a Wheezes potion.”

Harry turned back. “Right. Er. I think it’s one that makes you talk like a dragon. I thought it would be useful—you know. And George thought it would be funny, so . . .” Harry shrugged again.

Malfoy nodded. “I have been keeping something from you.”

“What?”

“You were right,” Malfoy said. “There’s something I . . . didn’t tell you, because I . . .” Malfoy drew himself up. “I didn’t tell you something, because I wanted to be your friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“At first I didn’t want to. Be your friend. I mean, I didn’t mean to—but now we are.”

“Well. Thanks.” 

“It happened after you kissed me,” Malfoy said. 

Harry felt claws squeeze in, wrapping around his heart, but Malfoy just went on.

“I pretended it wasn’t a big deal. But it was. It was a big deal to me. I thought you weren’t . . . I didn’t think you would welcome a big deal. You seemed to need . . . something else.”

The claws scraped upward, just like panic moves. “How big of a deal was it?” Harry croaked.

“A very large one.” It was taking quite a lot of courage, Harry realized with a weird sort of detachment. Malfoy had never been known for courage, and yet he seemed determined to plow on. He held his thin shoulders very square, and his head very high. “I quite like you. I’ve been trying not to like you nearly so much. I just wanted to be your friend. It doesn’t seem to be working.”

Harry was finding it hard to breath. His chest was tight, and his heart was being clawed to ribbons; the claws were crawling up his throat. “Why are you saying this?”

“I wanted to . . .” Malfoy gave a small shrug.

Harry would always remember that, the way that Malfoy moved his stiff, narrow shoulders. It looked so affected, Malfoy pretending he could weather rejection.

“I wanted to see if you felt ready for it.” 

Harry felt like he was being emptied out; now that the clawing was done, it was scraping things away. His eyes felt very hot, his skin very pale. It was getting hard to hear. “What are you saying?” 

Malfoy’s smile was rather sickly. “Well, Potter. I’m asking you out on a date.”

Date, Harry thought distantly. He’d had no idea. He’d been so wrapped up in himself, so sure that Malfoy was only curious, or mildly interested, and here was Malfoy— _giving him permission_. “What about Alfonse?”

“That’s over.” Malfoy tilted his head. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“No.”

“Well, it is.”

Harry still clung to Alfonse. “What happened?”

“Irreconcilable differences.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was . . . trying something. It didn’t work out.” Malfoy’s mouth was thin and tight. “I’m glad I did it.”

Harry wanted Malfoy against the wall. He wanted to taste him again, to crawl inside his skin again. He wanted to mark Malfoy all over, and really, it should be alright, because Malfoy wanted him to. Malfoy liked it. Malfoy was asking for it, wasn’t he, and Harry could have him right there against the wall, and who was there to care about things like dating, or the fact that Malfoy was not giving permission for _that_ , or always being so bloody careful? “I can’t.”

“Ah.” Malfoy looked away. 

“Malfoy.”

“You’ll excuse me, I . . .” Malfoy’s tone was distant. He still wasn’t looking at him. “I think I’ll go . . . tear up tree stumps, or something. Seems a popular past time. So sorry to have wasted your time. I’ll just be—”

“Malfoy.”

Malfoy looked at him, and blanched rather pale. “Potter?” His voice went very harsh. “Are you really going to have a crackup _now?”_

“Malfoy,” Harry said again.

“Go ahead. Have one. I don’t care. Want to know why?” Malfoy’s face was twisted and ugly. “It isn’t always about you.”

Malfoy swept right by him.

“I can’t.”

“I can see that,” Malfoy said. “It’s pathetic.”

Then Malfoy went away, and the world seemed to go very, very dark.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry never did remember that time very well. 

It was nothing like the time he had killed Dolores Umbridge, because then, of course, he hadn’t stopped himself. 

Harry hadn’t meant to kill her. No one had actually been able to prove it, and he was the Boy Who Lived, so they hadn’t brought up any charges. 

That was after Harry quit the Aurors and broke up with Ginny. He had been so . . . _angry_ ; he had been devastated. Umbridge had been in the midst of her sixth appeal. It had been five years since Voldemort had been defeated, but the trials had lasted forever.

The thing about Umbridge was she had been working for the Ministry, and for all the horrible things that she had done, she kept trying to claim she had just been doing what she had been told. Umbridge “believed in the system,” she told the _Prophet_ , and, “would see justice done.” Hermione called it a circus. Waste of Ministry resources. Ron said Umbridge was just trying to skirt her sentence. Harry just wanted it over.

The last four appeals, they had called Harry Potter to testify. Harry didn’t know why. He had had all kinds of experience with her at Hogwarts, but they were charging her for the crimes she had committed while she’d been at the Ministry in his sixth and seventh year. Besides stealing the locket back from her, he hadn’t had much to do with her then. He was sure she’d remained as awful as she’d always been, but there should’ve been other people at the Ministry to give better testimonies. Yet the Wizengamot kept calling him, and he had to keep testifying, and the scars on his hand always remained.

When Harry had appeared to give his testimony that last time, he’d just seen Ginny again. She’d told him she was worried about him, and that she was going out with Dean Thomas. She’d thought he’d left her to be happy, she said, and from what she could tell about the life he was living, she didn’t think he was happy.

Harry had walked into the courtroom, and his eyes had been hot. His skin had felt pale. Everything was cold, and he didn’t have a field to go to. All he could think was that ten years ago, his parents should have been putting him on the Hogwarts Express. Seventeen years from now, he should be putting his own kids on that train. 

Now he was never going to.

Everything was ruined with Ginny. He was never going to marry her. They weren’t going to have a family. He wasn’t going to have a family, and it would probably be best if he didn’t have any friends either. He wasn’t going to be an Auror as he had dreamed; he was never going to have dreams again. He was only going to have nightmares.

Voldemort had taken so much more from him than the lives of the previous generation, than the lives of his classmates, than his own childhood. He had taken Harry’s future too, and the worst part was, Harry couldn’t fight him now. Somehow everyone else was able to move on, living their lives, being _happy_ —all except Harry. And Dolores Umbridge.

The Wizengamot shook when Harry talked. The Ministry rocked. He was having trouble keeping the monster on the inside, and Harry didn’t know how to stop it.

Five years house arrest while waiting on appeals could make anyone a little crazy, and Umbridge was already that. Umbridge, however, seemed to lack the terror the others were feeling in response to the monster clawing its way all the way outside of Harry. Instead she was appalled. 

“He’s drunk!” she screeched, and screeched again. She demanded his testimony be stricken from the record.

Harry wanted to make her afraid. That was all he wanted. He stood up on the stand and looked at her.

Umbridge fell down dead.

St. Mungo’s declared she had died from a heart attack. No one knew of a magical means to silently and spontaneously cause a heart attack, and there was no way to tell whether it was magically induced or not. But everyone knew anyway. They had been there. They had seen it. And Umbridge now was dead.

This time was different from then, because then Harry had been around people. He had killed her and destroyed things, and then he had set about destroying himself. This time, he had at least learned some measure of control, and could take himself away before he hurt anyone.

Harry went to Chimera Downs, but of course, he could never stay there. All he had to do was look at the field.

Harry went to water, because he knew how to talk to mermaids now. He thought that they might talk to him. He went down so far, down to where the water was numbingly cold, to where the songs they sang were songs of ice. He closed his eyes, and there was a field . . .

Harry went to the Carpathians in Romania, high on the tops of mountains where no men were. He could feel the sky above him, and it was very very blue. The snow crunched beneath him just like glass. And in his mind there was a field, and the grass was very green. A breeze came wafting by . . .

Harry went to the coldest place he had ever been. Everywhere was snow; the ground was snow; the water was snow; the sky was snow. Harry closed his eyes, and inside him there was a field. It was summer twilight, and low the crickets sang. Grass swayed in the breeze; there was no road.

Draco Malfoy kept coming down. 

Harry Apparated.

*

Malfoy was at home, sitting at his Formica table, contemplating a glass of pumpkin juice.

There were wards around Malfoy’s flat, but the Apparition cut through them like butter. Malfoy knocked over his glass of juice.

“What the hell are you—”

“I need your help,” Harry said.

Malfoy was livid. “Why are you in my flat?”

“Please.”

Malfoy looked him over, and his voice changed. “Where have you been?”

“I tried to go to Chimera Downs. Malfoy.” Harry’s breath was coming short.

“Goodness, Harry.”

“I can’t,” Harry said, and put his hands on his chest, as though he could tear it out or make it stop. “I can’t.”

Malfoy made a little clicking sound. “Of course you can’t. Come here.”

Then Malfoy had his arms around him, and Harry was sinking to the floor. Malfoy felt very warm, and alive. Harry could feel blood thrumming in Malfoy’s veins; he could feel his heartbeat. Harry would not have thought it would do any good. He had wanted to destroy people before, just because they felt more alive than he did.

Perhaps, had it happened years ago, Harry would have wanted to destroy Malfoy too. But even if Harry wanted to, he didn’t, and Malfoy’s arms felt so strong and real. He closed his eyes, and thought of Draco Malfoy coming down the rise.

Malfoy with his shirt open at the throat, Malfoy with his long legs. Malfoy with his bright hair. One time it was wet, curled under his ears. Malfoy with the sky lit gold behind him, Malfoy with the crickets singing. The green grass swaying and Draco Malfoy, coming down. 

The monster circled, once, twice in his chest, as though finding a place around which to coil, and stayed inside him.

Meanwhile Malfoy pet Harry’s hair, saying nonsense things.

“I always knew you were a crazy person,” he murmured. “Shh. Go ahead and have a crackup. See if I care. Shh.”

“Oh, God,” said Harry.

Malfoy kept petting his hair. “You’re just a crazy person. It’s okay. Whatever your crazy problems are, you’re still just a crazy person, and I’m going to help you.”

“You can’t.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Malfoy said, and then was rubbing Harry’s back—small circles, soothing and smooth, the way you did for children. The way Malfoy did for children; the way you did for children if you were not Harry Potter. “Don’t be so utterly stupid. Shh.”

Harry shushed. He stayed silent as Malfoy kept rubbing his back, occasionally murmuring nonsense things, low in Harry’s ear.

*

Malfoy gently pushed Harry away. “Now we’re going to sit on chairs, just like human beings.”

_Like a human being_ , Harry thought, and sat down in the chair. He felt like his scar hurt, and put his hand to his forehead.

Malfoy was clanging around the kitchen, boiling things, taking down cups, Summoning a tin from a cupboard with his wand. He made the hot chocolate without turning around to look at Harry. When it was done, Malfoy brought the mugs to the Formica table, and set one down in front of Harry. Then Malfoy sat down too, and wrapped his hands around his mug. “Okay, I’m ready. Talk.”

Harry drank his hot chocolate.

“It’s very bad form to reject someone, have a crackup on his floor, and then not tell him why.”

“I have a monster in my chest,” Harry said.

Malfoy put his chocolate down very carefully. “What kind of monster?”

“I don’t know.”

“You have a monster in your chest and don’t know what kind?” Malfoy clicked his tongue, as though in reprimand. “That isn’t very friendly to your monster, is it?”

Harry grimaced. “It isn’t friendly to me.”

Malfoy nodded and sipped his chocolate, just as if this was a normal conversation. Just as if people always had monsters in their chests. “Have you had it looked at?”

“What?”

“Have you had it looked at,” Malfoy repeated for him. “If there’s a monster—”

“Er. It’s not a physical monster. I don’t think.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, and somehow his tone was very gentle. “I understand that, Harry. I meant, have you thought about getting help?”

Harry looked down at his chocolate. “I thought maybe Voldemort left it in me.”

“How could he do that?” Malfoy’s brow furrowed.

So Harry told him about Horcruxes, about how he’d walked into the forest. He told Malfoy about how Voldemort had cast the killing curse, and the dream of King’s Cross. He told Malfoy about the thing under the chair. 

“I left it there,” Harry said, and felt tightness close in on his chest. “I just left it.”

“That doesn’t sound like a monster, Harry.” 

Malfoy’s voice worked on Harry. Normally when people sounded gentle and understanding, it didn’t work. Harry didn’t think he deserved understanding or gentleness. Coming from Malfoy, it felt different, because Malfoy wasn’t nice. Malfoy was never gentle except when something needed it. If Malfoy was doing it, it must be alright.

Harry looked at Malfoy, the little line about his mouth, the way his eyes looked tired. Harry looked at Malfoy, and it was better than thinking of the field. Inside, Harry felt calm.

“No,” Harry finally agreed, and looked back down into his chocolate. “I guess it couldn’t be. I felt the monster before then, anyway.”

“Perhaps you had better start at the beginning.”

So Harry told him about sixth year, Dean Thomas, and Ginny. He told Malfoy about after the war, how things had gradually gotten worse with Ginny. He talked about how angry he became, working with the Aurors. The monster had started coming then, too. He told Malfoy about tracking dark wizards in the Aurors, fighting Summoned beasts, making the dragon walk away. 

“I thought that was a rumor,” Malfoy said.

“It wasn’t.”

“But the three foreign dignitaries,” Malfoy began.

“Them too.”

“Listen, splinching is something you do when—”

“I know what it is,” Harry said. “I Apparated them.”

“You mean you side-along—”

“No. I made them disappear.”

“So it’s a transitive verb now. I guess I always wondered how those notes you sent from your hermitage arrived at my flat.”

“Different spell. But similar.”

Malfoy nodded. “Okay. You quit the Aurors. And you left Ginny Weasley. It was in the _Daily Prophet_. How about . . . ?”

“The rest of it was true, too. I couldn’t . . . I wanted . . .”

“I’m going to get you more chocolate,” Malfoy said, even though Harry hadn’t touched his. Malfoy stood up, and spelled the chocolate out of the cup, then poured new chocolate in. It was steaming hot. 

He brought it back to the table, standing behind Harry. Looming, Harry thought, then Malfoy’s hand tentatively settled on his shoulder and Harry closed his eyes. His chest felt tight again, and he didn’t understand how Malfoy could be his calm thing, the one place in his whole life Harry could go to and feel at peace, and also be the thing that made the monster howl inside him.

“You’ve always been dismal at talking,” Malfoy drawled, and pressed in on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry closed his eyes and focused on that hand. “I tried not to care. About anything, or anyone. The things I thought about the people I loved, they were . . . And the way I was with Ginny. I wanted . . . I wanted to own her.”

Malfoy took his hand away. “So does Pansy Parkinson. She’s quite soppy over her, you know. I think she would even leave Greg.” He came around to the other side of the table and sat down again. “So,” he said. “It happens when you feel violence. Hate. Desire. Jealousy. Possession.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Am I missing any?”

“Love.”

Malfoy very quickly hid an expression that looked suspiciously like pity. “Love,” he added on his fingers, business-like. “Anger.”

“Guilt.”

Malfoy turned his cup on the table, as though he wanted to see it from a new angle. “Guilt,” he told the cup. “That’s a ridiculous emotion.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never felt guilty.”

“Of course I’ve felt guilty.” Malfoy looked annoyed. “It’s still ridiculous. Alright, then. What are you guilty for?”

Harry shrugged. “Pick something.”

For a while, Malfoy was meditative, contemplating the cup, as though it might tell him something. “Fine. And no doubt you’re guilty about your monster too, which makes your monster get riled up, which makes you more guilty. Am I right?”

Harry nodded.

“Fabulous,” Malfoy said, but the sarcasm did not appear to be directed at Harry. Maybe it was at the cup, Harry thought. “That’s a nasty little cycle.”

“I suppose.”

“That’s okay.” Malfoy reached over and patted Harry’s hand, just as though reassuring a crazy person. “I knew you were crazy.” The patting was really more like he was reassuring a crazy person who was drooling and couldn’t chew his own food, rather than a crazy person who might fly off the handle and kill people. Malfoy was always superior like that. Harry found it extremely comforting.

“Thanks.”

“Love, hate, jealousy, anger, guilt—pretty much any strong emotional reaction.” Malfoy cocked his head. “Now we come to it. Which one was it this last time?”

“It doesn’t happen with all strong emotional reactions.”

Malfoy raised his brows. “Enlighten us.”

“It doesn’t happen when I feel peace.”

“Peace.” Malfoy’s mouth tightened. “Peace is a strong emotion?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” Malfoy looked at the cup again. “What’s it like?”

Harry frowned. “You’ve . . .”

Malfoy was shaking his head. “I wouldn’t say as though I have. You’ve met me, haven’t you? I’m rather tetchy.”

Harry stared at him. Malfoy had fine lines permanently on his brow, as though they had been etched there by a pin. His cheekbones were very high and his chin was quite pointy. It was strange to think that other people might not see the same thing as Harry saw, that they wouldn’t notice that little place by his mouth, that they wouldn’t notice the lines beside his eyes, that they would not adore the curve of Malfoy’s jaw.

“I went to Chimera Downs to make the monster go away,” said Harry.

“I thought as much.”

“It was secret and it was quiet. There was no one there to hurt, so that if I did lose control . . .”

“You would only hurt yourself,” Malfoy said, and Harry nodded. “You see how I begin to see how your tiny mind works.” Malfoy reached out to pat Harry’s hand again, but found Harry’s hand in a fist, and instead rested it there, on top.

“That was peace,” Harry said. “I tried to use it. Every time I felt the monster, I thought of Chimera Downs.”

“Even when you were at Chimera Downs?”

“There’s a particular field. The one that faces west. You can see it from the house.”

“With the slope.” Malfoy let go of his hand. “And the sycamore.”

“That field in particular. At first I would look at it, and make the monster go away. And then I started trying to close my eyes and see it.”

“So you could leave. One day.”

“It didn’t always work,” Harry said. “I mean, eventually it did, but sometimes I still . . .”

“When I first got there, you . . . were a little fractious, once or twice.”

“And then after I kissed you.”

Malfoy seemed to perk up. “It happened then?”

Swallowing, Harry nodded, and looked down.

“Why?”

Harry scowled back up at him. “Because I _marked_ you,” he said, thinking it was obvious enough.

“Oh.” Malfoy bit his lip. “But I liked that. Didn’t I tell you?”

Harry gritted his teeth. “Don’t _say_ things like that.”

“Why not?” Malfoy sounded interested. “Does it make the monster—er—claw? Is it doing it now?”

Harry had to close his eyes, and lock his hands in fists. “You said you were going to help me. Not provoke me.”

“Okay, alright, understood, acknowledged.” Malfoy seemed extremely pleased, sitting there quite cheerfully, waving his hand around in a dismissive flourish. “Question withdrawn.”

“Yes. It’s clawing.”

“That’s too bad.” Malfoy smiled in satisfaction.

“This is serious.”

“Of course it’s serious,” Malfoy assured him happily. “Poor baby,” he added, and stroked Harry’s hand.

“Why are you so happy?”

“I’m not happy,” Malfoy said, and patted his hand again. “I can see you’re very stressed. Well, I’m a little happy.”

“Well then. Thanks.”

Malfoy ruffled. “I can’t help it if your chest monster likes me.” 

“It doesn’t like anyone. I don’t like anyone. I mean, I . . .” Harry clenched his fists until the knuckles were white. His eyes were very hot. He stood up.

Malfoy stood up too.

“I can’t do this,” Harry said. “I can’t do this; I—”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Malfoy wasn’t happy now. He’d gone rather ghastly, actually. His face looked like a mask.

“I don’t—”

Malfoy came around the table, and then pushed down hard on Harry’s shoulders. “Sit down,” he said. “Sit down and shut up. And then I’m going to tell you exactly what we’re going to do.”

Harry sat down and shut up.

“Good,” Malfoy told him. “That was very good.” Malfoy’s hands rested on his shoulders, for a moment more. Then Malfoy stopped touching him, came around the table, and sat down again. 

“What are we going to do?” Harry asked.

Malfoy flapped a whimsical hand. “I don’t know.”

“You said—”

“Sounded good, didn’t it?”

Harry rolled his eyes, and put his head in his hands. “This is hopeless.”

“Come on. You’re not hopeless.” There was a little pause. “Well, maybe you’re a little hopeless. Harry . . .” Malfoy hesitated, and it made Harry look up. Malfoy wasn’t looking back at him. “Why did you come here? I mean . . .” He frowned. “To hear you tell it, you’ve been battling this for ages. Why me? Why right now?”

“I’m tired. I’m just really tired.”

“Of keeping it under control?” 

“Yes. No. I’m tired of never getting to have what I want.”

Malfoy’s brows went up, and he still wasn’t looking at Harry. “You have more than most people, you know. Friends. Enough money to be independent. A nice flat. Family, even if it isn’t—”

“Alright, I’m lucky. I don’t care. I’m still tired of not getting to have—I should get to have—God, will you listen to me? I sound like . . .”

“I’m listening.” Malfoy was practically on the edge of his seat, listening. Now he was looking directly at him, almost breathless. “Trust me, I’m listening.”

“I want to have—I should have—I want _you_ ,” Harry snarled, pushing away from the table again.

There was a long silence, in which Malfoy looked at his cup. “And you see no reason why I might be happy about that, Potter?”

“I—what?”

“I’ve told you I fancy you, that I wanted—” Malfoy’s face twisted, and he leapt up from his seat as well. “Are you even thinking of anyone but yourself?”

“I,” Harry said, and swallowed. He wanted so much, so many things he should not do, his chest ached with them. The monster clawed for them. Harry closed his eyes again.

“Sweet Merlin. You can’t.” Malfoy came to him and shook him hard. “Listen to me, Harry. I’m a human being. You said you cared about my feelings. This isn’t easy for me, either.”

Harry’s breath was coming shallow. He felt sweat break out on his brow, cold and clammy.

“Maybe I don’t have a monster,” Malfoy said, “but I have other things. Doubts, and—I thought you might . . . Do you think because I’m not as powerful as you, the things I want matter less?” Malfoy pushed him into the wall. 

“They don’t matter less.” Harry swallowed. “I just don’t know how to—I don’t know how to—”

“Think of your field.” Malfoy jabbed a finger at his chest. “Think of it right now, and don’t stop.”

“I don’t have a field anymore.”

“You said—”

“All I have is you.” Harry’s eyes were very hot as he looked at Malfoy, and he didn’t blink at all.

“Oh.” Malfoy looked surprised. “Well, that’s even better then. Listen to me, and do exactly what I say.”

Harry swallowed again.

“Can you do that?”

Harry didn’t know. He nodded jerkily.

“Good,” Malfoy said again. “Kiss me.”

Harry’s hands clenched into fists. “I don’t . . .”

“I said, kiss me,” Malfoy said, and kissed him.

His lips were soft on the outside of Harry’s own, pressing gently, with a question. Harry closed his eyes, and there was no field. There had never been a road, but there was Draco Malfoy. 

The light was always gold behind him, and yet the sky so full of stars.

Malfoy came down and down and down, and he was coming just for Harry.

Harry kissed Malfoy back, opened his mouth just enough so that Malfoy breathed into his mouth when he made a gasping sound. Harry kissed him and held everything else in check, everything he was, eyes closed, focusing on that one thing: Draco Malfoy coming down.

His mouth closed on Malfoy’s lower lip, and Malfoy pulled his mouth away, leaning his forehead in until his brow rested on Harry’s. Malfoy’s hands had come up and were holding Harry’s face. They gripped tight.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Malfoy breathed. His voice was a command, but he was begging. “Please, don’t say you’re sorry. I couldn’t bear it.”

Harry realized for the very first time just how much he might have hurt him, and just how much Malfoy had hidden from him. Harry realized how much he simply hadn’t seen, because he’d been afraid, and hadn’t once considered that Malfoy was, too. “I’m not sorry.” 

Abruptly, Malfoy pulled back, frowning. “And don’t run away, either. I’ll kill you dead if you run away.”

“Okay. I won’t run away.” Then he kissed him again.

Malfoy pressed his narrow hips against him, tilted his head and made soft, wanting little noises. His hand gripped Harry’s hair hard, and pulled him down.

“Let’s not have these.” Malfoy started pulling off his glasses.

“Wait,” said Harry, grabbing his wrist. “We have to stop.”

“Potter.” Malfoy sounded extremely irritated.

“No, I’m not leaving. And I’m not sorry. But I . . . I want to do things to you,” he said, not knowing how to say just what he meant, “and some of them—”

“Excellent.” Malfoy beamed. “I want to do things to you, too.”

“Some of them definitely aren’t right. And some of them I can’t tell if—”

“I’ll tell you. I have an excellent grasp of right and wrong.”

Harry just looked at him incredulously.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “What we do by ourselves is—it’s _ours_. You don’t seriously mean you care whether _Hermione Weasley_ thinks it’s—”

“I’m not talking about Hermione right now.”

“Yes, but I mean, the general public, or whoever. When it comes down to what you do to me when we’re alone—I mean, completely alone—only what we think really matters.”

Malfoy was still looking breathless and excited, like Malfoy on a sugar high. Or like Malfoy used to in school whenever he thought Harry was going to get punished. That was a little creepy. And a little exciting too, actually, when Harry thought about it, and he had to—“Okay,” Harry said. “That makes some sort of sense, I guess.”

Malfoy sighed noisily. “Fine, then. What is it you want?”

“What?”

“Pay attention. We just agreed we can do what we want. Anything we want.” Malfoy’s tone was one of reprimand, but there was a little smile playing with the corners of his lips. “Then the question is—what do you want?”

“I don’t know. I could really hurt you.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Malfoy ran his hands down Harry’s chest. “You’re very big and strong.”

“No.” Harry took Malfoy’s hands off of him. “I’m not talking about games, Malfoy. Not everything I mean is the kind of thing that . . . people like.”

Malfoy’s eyes met his. “I told you I would tell you.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want, Potter?” 

“Not to screw this up.”

“Hmm.” Malfoy leaned in, his breath ghosting across Harry’s neck. Malfoy whispered in his ear, “I can help with that.” He kissed the spot under Harry’s ear, then kissed a line down his neck until Harry grabbed him, and was kissing him again. 

Malfoy was very warm. His body felt so alive under Harry’s hands, pressing Harry against the wall, lean and insistent and strong. Harry could feel his heartbeat. He wanted to taste his skin. He wanted—

Harry pulled away. “I know what I want.”

“Hmm.” Malfoy licked his lips.

“I want to go very slow.”

“Slow. I can go slow.”

Harry had never heard Malfoy talk like that, thick and lazy with utter contentment like that. He had to get away, because Malfoy was pretty much turning into mindless melted butter in his hands. Soon he could do anything he wanted with him, and this was supposed to be _Malfoy_ , who could be so bright and sharp just like a blade, Malfoy excited and eager and so completely giving against him, because Malfoy _did_ want him; Malfoy needed him; Malfoy would let him—

“Slower than this, even,” said Harry.

Malfoy wasn’t so completely out of it as he seemed, because his hand shot down and gripped Harry’s wrist. “And now here’s what I want.”

“Malfoy—” Harry tugged.

Malfoy tightened his grip. “You don’t get to run away. We can go as slow as you like. We don’t even have to do anything . . . at all intimate.” Malfoy’s cheeks tinged pink, and Harry wondered that Malfoy could be kissing him like that— _talking_ like that—one moment, and embarrassed about the word ‘intimate’ the next. “But you don’t get to run away from your monster again. Ever.” 

“I . . .” Harry looked at Malfoy’s pale, pointed face, and realized that he was in love with it. “Yes. Alright.”

“Splendid.” Malfoy dropped his wrist, and pushed away. 

He didn’t sound as though he thought it was very splendid. He really liked the kissing, Harry thought. Malfoy liked it so much that Harry—very much needed to stop doing it. 

“So then,” Malfoy said.

“Yeah.”

“We should . . .” Malfoy appeared to become distracted by Harry’s lips, and stopped talking.

Harry didn’t know what to do. Ordinarily, now would be a really good time to leave, but Harry had promised. Malfoy might see that as running away, and Malfoy . . . must have thought Harry didn’t want him back, Harry realized for the first time. He may have even thought Harry was going to reject his friendship, because Malfoy had been that afraid, and that nervous—and yes, a little tetchy, and—

—and when Harry thought of Malfoy, and the things he must have been feeling, there was no room for the monster to rise.

“We need to figure out how to make it so you don’t go psychotic if you get angry. Or jealous, or guilty or . . . maybe I’ll write a list.”

“Now?”

Malfoy’s eyes drifted down to Harry’s lips again. He looked away. “Now would probably be better.” 

“Okay,” said Harry.

Malfoy nodded and went to the living room, Harry following. Opening a desk that look antique but small like a child’s, Malfoy started rummaging around. Sitting down on the couch, Malfoy arranged the things so that they were all easily accessible, the ink pot floating in front of him, the parchment smoothed down on a slate in his lap. Then with a quill in one hand, he beckoned with his other. “Over here, Harry.” 

Before just then, Harry would have imagined that Malfoy being seductive would be a bit of a joke. Even if he was attractive in his own way, it wasn’t something he tried to be, and Malfoy seemed too . . . well, prickly to ever have a go at being sexy.

Of course all of that was completely wrong, because suddenly Malfoy was apparently made of sex. The problem was, Malfoy hadn’t even really been trying. He wasn’t trying to come on to him. Even if earlier Malfoy had wanted to, he wasn’t now. He was writing a list. The nib of his quill was resting on his bottom lip and he was looking at the parchment thoughtfully. 

Harry went over to the couch.

“Sit.” Apparently Malfoy could sound like honey, also. He moved the quill away from his mouth, and scribbled something on the parchment.

Harry sat.

“Now, you’re going to—” Malfoy began, and Harry leaned over and took the quill away. He put it on the table, then the parchment and ink as well. Then he took off his glasses, folding them, and put them on the table too. When he had done that, he was still leaning over Malfoy. Harry looked at him—his blurry face—and put an arm around him.

“Oh, good.” Malfoy shimmied so that he was facing Harry more directly. “I really just wanted to make out.” Then Malfoy kissed him. 

Harry let him, then pulled his mouth away and his body closer. He put his head on Malfoy’s shoulder; he breathed in Malfoy’s scent. He held on and on and on.

At first Malfoy was stiff under him, the cessation of the kissing either confusing or disappointing, perhaps both. Then Malfoy’s hand tentatively found his hair, and began to move in it.

Harry relaxed against him, and held him tighter. 

“Oh,” said Malfoy, in a soft huff of realization. His hand went on in Harry’s hair. “Who would have thought? Harry Potter likes to be cuddled.”

Harry held tighter still.

Malfoy murmured warm and pleased, “You could’ve said you liked to be stroked just like a house pet.”

Harry could feel Malfoy’s mouth curve against his forehead. Harry breathed him in again, and out, in again, and out.

“I tried to tell them you were crazy. No one would listen. I said you’d have a crackup, too. Did they listen? No.”

These were Malfoy’s versions of sweet nothings, Harry realized. They were strangely soothing.

*

Harry awoke to Malfoy shaking his shoulder. “What are you doing in my flat?” Malfoy demanded.

“Er,” Harry said groggily. “I fell asleep.”

“Of course you did. Don’t you know that people—human people—sleep in beds?” Malfoy gave Harry his glasses, and Harry put them on. Malfoy looked perturbed. “Of course you don’t. Harry, human people sleep in beds.”

“I know that, Malfoy. I took you to yours.”

“Oh.” Malfoy was flustered. “I—did you take off my clothes, too?” Now Malfoy looked pleased.

“Why does my head hurt so much?”

“Hot chocolate.” Malfoy straightened up. 

Harry rubbed his head. “Maybe I should . . .”

“No.” Malfoy’s hand dropped down on Harry’s shoulder, and held on tight. “You’re going to stay here and have a balanced breakfast.”

“You never eat breakfast.”

“Shows how little you know. Hot chocolate is perfectly balanced.”

In the kitchen, Malfoy took out curry, leek salad, and a chicken leg, saying very intrepidly, “I think we can make breakfast with these things.” 

The breakfast was alright, though: toast, jam, eggs, and pumpkin juice that Harry found in Malfoy's cupbaords. “Suit yourself,” Malfoy told Harry. “If yourself is boring.” Malfoy apparently did have breakfast; it just was normally curry.

“How can you eat curry with hot chocolate?” Harry wanted to know.

“How can you eat with that face?” Malfoy wanted to know.

“First I open my mouth, then I put things in, then I chew.”

“How don’t you get sick? I get ill just looking at it.”

Harry frowned. “So says the man who wanted to snog me last night.”

“That’s fine. Snogging’s done with eyes closed.”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it. “I actually don’t understand your sense of humour.”

Malfoy beamed. “I know. It’s funnier that way.” 

Done with breakfast, Harry pushed his plate aside and put his head in his arms on the table.

“You have appalling manners,” Malfoy informed him from somewhere above.

Harry’s head was still pounding. He couldn’t really remember what he’d been doing before he’d showed up at Malfoy’s, or for how long he’d been doing it. Mostly he remembered ice. He hoped he hadn’t done anything stupid that for some reason he couldn’t remember now.

One hand was loose and open on the table. Harry felt a tentative touch on his palm. Malfoy’s fingers were very light—unsure, Harry thought, which was strange. Malfoy always acted so sure of everything, even when he so very obviously wasn’t. The light finger in his palm traced the lines there, and then lifted.

Harry caught it back, and held Malfoy’s hand until he could look up. Malfoy was looking at him with a soft little smile, one that touched his eyes and just the corners of his mouth.

“First, let’s state the facts.” Malfoy carefully extricated his hand. “One. You have a monster in your chest.”

Harry sighed.

“Two. What this really means is you have a very terrible temper and you don’t know how to control it.” 

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

“Three. You think it’s more complicated than that, but it really isn’t.”

Harry took a deep breath. “If it was just a temper, I couldn’t hurt people.”

“Who have you hurt?”

Harry looked at his hands. “Dolores Umbridge.”

“She’s dead.” Malfoy’s voice was very patient.

“Yes. I killed her.”

Shocked silence issued from the general direction of Malfoy. “But it was . . . how did you . . .?”

Harry had never spoken of it before. Doing so now, he was highly aware of the feeling coiled tight in his chest, aching on the inside. “I thought it. In my head. I could feel it in—in every part of me. The Killing Curse. Right here.” He pressed his fist to his forehead. “I wanted her to die.” He looked up at Malfoy, who was staring at him in open-mouthed in disbelief.

“You can’t,” Malfoy began, and stopped.

“I can. You saw. At Chimera Downs. I made the ground shake. That whole area of earth. I could have brought it down with a thought.”

“You didn’t hurt me.”

“I wanted to.” Harry looked back at his hands.

The silence stretched for so long that Harry began to think about what he had said, basically admitting being a murderer and that he had wanted to hurt him. He could feel the claws now. He wouldn’t blame Malfoy for leaving right now, except that it was his own flat.

Instead, Malfoy floated the dishes over to the sink, spelling them to magically wash themselves. He turned back to Harry. “I want to take you somewhere. Will you come with me?”

Malfoy didn’t sound like honey this time. He sounded abrupt and rather distant, but Harry followed him anyway. Malfoy went through the living room and then out of his flat.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a field trip.” Malfoy took him to the lift. “We’re doing research.”

“Where?” Harry asked, when Malfoy took him outside.

“You’ll see,” Malfoy said, and put out his hand.

Harry took it, and they Apparated. When they arrived at their destination, they were in Wiltshire.

*

“What a lovely morning it is,” Malfoy said, as they walked through the grass.

Harry looked around. The grass was green and wet, and Malfoy started walking. In front of them were the gates to a large mansion. “Why are we here?” 

“This is where I used to live,”

“I think I knew that, Malfoy. What are we doing here?”

“I’ll tell you a secret. It’s not actually to visit Mrs. Finch- Fletchley.” 

The gates became a mouth. “Who’s there?” the gates asked.

“It’s Draco Malfoy,” Malfoy said. “We want to visit Mrs. Finch- Fletchley.”

“What . . .?” 

“What did you think, Harry?” Malfoy’s smile was not quite pleasant. “That Malfoy Manor went to a rich Slytherin Pureblood family? Do you know how many of those there are left?”

“May I help you?” The voice of the gates this time was a woman’s.

“Yes, Mrs. Finch- Fletchley?” Malfoy said. “Sorry to drop by unannounced. We would just like to pop in briefly.” He paused. “I’ve brought Harry Potter.”

“Harry Potter?” The voice sounded fluttery.

Harry glared at Malfoy. “Yes,” he told the voice. Malfoy nudged him. Harry rolled his eyes. “It’s me.”

“How wonderful! Please, do come in!” The mouth opened, becoming a gate again to let them through. 

“Is that Justin’s mum?” Harry asked, as they walked down the path to the mansion.

“No.” Malfoy didn’t look at him, not saying anything more as they came up to the house. A house-elf ushered them inside. Mrs. Finch-Fletchley met them, and then Harry realized she was Justin’s wife. It was strange to think that someone in his year at Hogwarts was married and living in a mansion, but then Harry reminded himself that many of his friends from Hogwarts were married, even if they didn’t have mansions. His very best friends were married. Most people had got on with their lives since Hogwarts.

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley was delighted to see them. Harry was in the awkward position of knowing next to nothing about her, and Malfoy wasn’t much help. Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, however, seemed enamored enough of the great Harry Potter that she asked at least a dozen questions pertaining to Harry, without listening to any of the answers and simultaneously—and rather unsubtly—revealing a great deal about herself.

After the trials, the Manor had apparently gone on auction, but no one had wanted it. It had languished on the market for years (enough time in which her husband might make his fortune, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley hinted) before the Finch-Fletchley’s had snatched it up at quite a bargain. Thirty thousand Galleons did not sound like a bargain at all to Harry (because of course Mrs. Finch-Fletchley revealed the price), but Harry saw Malfoy wince.

After they had been moved in a year, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley went on to tell them that (as though Malfoy didn’t know) Draco Malfoy came to visit them. He offered to remove some of the “rather more irksome” (so Mrs. Finch-Fletchley characterized them) enchantments on the Manor which had devalued the real estate. For that, Mr. Finch Fletchley was able to put a good word in, which allowed Malfoy to get a job as a clerk in the Ministry. And wasn’t that just nice all around? 

Harry did think it was rather nice that Malfoy had helped Justin, and Justin had helped Malfoy. He never would have guessed that the two of them would give each other the time of day, Justin being Muggleborn, and Malfoy being—well, Malfoy. 

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, on the other hand, was less than nice, in Harry’s opinion, since the reason she had told the story was obviously to imply Malfoy had her husband to thank for his circumstances in life. Having read the papers, she would be aware that Harry and Malfoy were friends. Harry had learned many people would go to a great deal of effort in order to convince you that you owed them something when you were the hero of the wizarding world.

Harry had never been fond of those kinds of machinations, but Malfoy only sat there politely sipping tea, looking rather more pale and drawn than usual. 

Justin, Harry gradually deduced, was out at work. He must have a lucrative career, even if Malfoy Manor had gone for only thirty-thousand Galleons.

“He does,” Mrs. Finch- Fletchley assured Harry, seeming very surprised. “Don’t you know?”

Harry didn’t know.

“Of course,” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley went on, “we’ve shortened it to Finch in the name.”

“Harry doesn’t know anything about fashion,” Malfoy said helpfully, his voice very cool.

“But surely you’ve heard of Abbot-Corner and Finch?”

“No,” said Harry, who was going to kill Malfoy. Malfoy obviously knew whatever Justin did. No doubt he would have come here if he had thought Justin would be here. Actually, the idea that Malfoy was here anyway was still—really confusing. 

Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, having ascertained Harry was not at all impressed, seemed very much less inclined toward conversation after that. 

“Harry came to see something.” Harry noticed Malfoy didn’t say, _I came to show Harry something_ , removing himself from the equation entirely. “I wonder if we might take a look upstairs?”

“Oh! That’s all quite different than it used to be. It’s been completely redone.”

Something ticked in Malfoy’s face, but his voice was bland when he said, “That’s alright. It’s more to do with a room itself than what’s in it now.”

“There aren’t still any of those . . . enchantments, are there?”

There was no expression in Malfoy’s face. “No. It’s—” For just one moment, Malfoy looked strained, searching for a word. “It’s to do with a memory.”

“I see,” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley said, although she very obviously didn’t. She looked to Harry, but Harry didn’t actually see either. But Mrs. Finch-Fletchley kept looking at Harry when she said, “Oh, I suppose so. What harm could it do? I’m sure it’s very important.” She nodded to Harry, because he was Harry. When he didn’t acknowledge her apparent favor, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley shifted her skirts. “Shall I—”

Malfoy stood up quickly, turning just a little, so that Harry could only see his sharp profile. “I know my way around,” he said, then tilted his head. “Unless you’ve changed the staircase too.” Harry couldn’t read his expression.

“Very well,” Mrs. Finch-Fletchley said. “I do hope we can help you.” She looked meaningfully at Harry in a last attempt to earn his gratitude.

“Thanks,” said Harry, and followed Malfoy up the stairs.

*

Once they upstairs, Harry attempted to question Malfoy again.

Malfoy, however, walked down the hall with very measured steps, stopping at a closed door. “It was this one,” he told the door. Then he took a deep breath, twisted the knob, and went inside.

The room was very ordinary, if more richly appointed than some others Harry had seen. There was a bed with a canopy, a pine wardrobe, purple drapes, a thick carpet, a chair in the corner. There were not any personal things in the room—a guest room, Harry supposed, though it seemed rather large. There was a window that faced west, full and large.

“Malfoy,” Harry said, turning to face him, “what . . .?”

“This is the room the Dark Lord stayed in.”

Harry blinked and looked around.

“It was different then.” Malfoy’s tone was light and crisp. “It used to be the master bedroom, you see, where my parents—” Malfoy stopped as though he had come down a road where there appeared to be a block, and then started again. “He cleared them out and used it while he was here.”

“Why did you bring me here?” 

Malfoy went on as though he had not heard. “The bed was bigger then. There were more mirrors. More . . . pictures, and Mother’s vanity. Father had ornamental swords, from Japan you see; they hung crossed . . .” Malfoy looked around.

“Draco,” Harry said, and tried to touch him.

Malfoy slunk away. “It doesn’t matter.” He turned and faced Harry then. “The point is, the Dark Lord had a bedroom.”

Harry tried to get some hint from Malfoy’s face. “Er. What kind of point is that?”

Malfoy shook his head. He walked over to the window, looking out of it for a long moment before he turned back. “I never knew how the Dark Lord came back to life. Father . . .” Malfoy frowned down at his shoes. “I know it—about the Portkey, and what happened to Diggory, but I don’t know—I didn’t know . . . . I never knew how he came back. I didn’t know what he was.”

“The Horcruxes.”

Malfoy nodded. “Yes, you’re right. I get that now. You know more about it than I.” Malfoy looked out the window again. “You confronted him more than anyone.” He turned back. “But the Dark Lord _lived in my house_. I was here for a whole summer, and the Christmas holidays . . . I know things too.”

“Okay,” Harry said slowly. “What do you know?”

Malfoy looked around the room again. “I know that he lived here. He had to . . . Voldemort slept, just like the rest of us. He had to eat, even. I bet he even had to take shits.” Malfoy smiled mirthlessly. “He was a human being. What remained of one.”

Harry frowned. “He split up his soul, Malfoy.”

“Okay.” Malfoy’s eyes moved to him, but looked as though they could not see him. “But that was still . . . he was all split up into pieces, but he had a soul. Once. Who knows why he did the things he did? Maybe he was born wicked. Maybe he had a horrible childhood. Maybe he truly did believe the things he . . .” Malfoy drifted off. His attention seemed to drift as well, captured again by the window.

Harry took a step closer. “He did have a terrible childhood.”

Malfoy sniffed. “He told you over tea and biscuits, did he?” 

“Dumbledore showed me. When we had to look for Horcruxes, I had to find out more about Volde—he was named Tom Riddle.” Harry told Malfoy about the Pensieve, about some of the scenes he had scene. Once Harry had mentioned the scene with Merope, Malfoy started laughing. No sound was coming out. Harry frowned. “What’s funny?”

“Oh, nothing.” Malfoy swallowed. His arms were crossed, more as though holding himself in than anyone else out. His chest had never seemed quite so thin before. “It’s just the Dark Lord being a half-blood, that’s all. It’s very funny.”

Harry took another step closer. “I forgot you didn’t know.”

Malfoy looked away again. “Should have known Dumbledore would have told you more than I ever could.”

Harry stood very close by then.

When Malfoy turned back, he was quite pale. He must have been cold, standing by window. “It doesn’t change anything. The Dark Lord—Riddle. Whether he was wicked or had a temper, I don’t know, he—even he—was just a man. It didn’t start out that he didn’t have a soul, or . . . What made him different was that he was more powerful.”

“I’m almost as powerful as he was.”

Malfoy shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold. He looked down, frowning. “Yes, Harry. Thank you. That’s very informative. But what I mean is—consider for a moment, that you have no greater capacity to love than I do.”

“Malfoy—”

“Consider that you have no more capacity for evil than me. Consider, just for an instant—I know it’s hard—that we are equals, and what separates us is the choices we’ve made, and not . . . not the fact that you’re just _better_.”

“I don’t think I’m—”

“It might not even be true,” Malfoy said, turning around. “Maybe the Dark Lord could never have loved anyone at all. Maybe he didn’t have it in him. Those years that he lived here—they were like a nightmare. They almost didn’t seem real. He was so horrible, he had to be a dream.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said again, and put his hand on the sharp jut of Malfoy’s shoulder.

Malfoy shrugged away. “That was all. I just wanted to show you that—that he was real after all.”

“Can you show me your room?” Harry asked, before he knew he was going to ask it.

Malfoy’s shoulders stiffened. “What for?”

Harry didn’t really know what for, but thought it probably had something to do with the way Malfoy looked so sharp in all directions, as though if you touched him, he might break. “I just wanted to see.”

“It’s not my room anymore.”

“We can just look at it.” There were probably no more happy memories in that room than there were in this one, he guessed, but maybe it would be different. Maybe Malfoy would remember better times. Maybe the Finch-Fletchleys had changed it so much that Malfoy would not remember anything at all, and he would see that a room was just a room.

“Fine,” Malfoy said, and went to the door.

They walked down the hall and rounded a corner, and Malfoy opened another door.

The room was obviously a nursery. There was a cradle with a mobile overhead, and a changing table. Mrs. Finch-Fletchley had not looked pregnant, but they were apparently trying. The colors were yellow and soft blue, and Malfoy looked ghastly, the way you looked when ghosts were walking through you. 

“That was my room, Potter,” Malfoy said, and shut the door. “Had enough?”

They took their leave of Mrs. Finch-Fletchley, who fluttered around some more and graciously informed Harry that he could visit, “any time, and bring whomever he wanted,” which seemed very obviously a slight toward Malfoy. Harry wondered why anyone would want to live in Voldemort’s old headquarters. He went out to the lawn with Malfoy.

Once clear of the gates, he took Malfoy’s hand before Malfoy could say anything, and they Disapparated.

*

Back at Malfoy’s flat, Malfoy quickly wrested free of Harry. Apparently, he very much needed to straighten his desk, because that was what he started doing, without looking at Harry. “I’m tired now,” Malfoy said. “You had better go home.”

“But,” Harry began, yet he couldn’t think of what to say.

“I’ve spent a lot of time on this,” Malfoy said. “I haven’t been sleeping well. It would be very nice if I could stop worrying about your problems now and rest.”

“Malfoy,” Harry said, and came toward him again.

Malfoy slammed the desk shut. When he turned around, his expression was narrow and ugly. “Even if I _have_ spent five days unable to sleep, worried about you, even if I have thought of nothing but you for months now, even if we have spent all morning trying to establish the fact that you aren’t the center of the universe— _you still aren’t the center of the universe_.”

“I never said I was.”

“Then leave me alone.”

“Draco,” Harry said, and came up, and kissed him.

Malfoy pushed him. “How can I get it through your thick head that I don’t want you right now?”

“I want to help you.”

“I don’t want your help!”

Harry’s voice was hoarse. “I’ll do anything.”

Malfoy didn’t look at him. “Just go away.”

“Okay,” Harry said. He was opening the door when Malfoy put a hand on it, and shut it while Harry was still on the inside. 

“Did you know that you were gone for five days?”

“Gone?”

“Yes, gone. I didn’t know where you were.” Malfoy looked away. “Granger was very worried.”

“Granger.”

“Yes.” 

Harry sighed, scrubbing his cheeks with his hands. “I guess I’ll—”

“Stay.”

“What?”

“I’ve changed my mind,” said Malfoy. “I want you to stay. I’ve just got to have some time to . . . Everything is going to be okay. I’m going to help you.”

_I want to help you too_ , Harry wanted to say, but he thought that for some reason Malfoy would not like it. “Okay.”

Malfoy slumped against the door. “You can’t go away like that. You have to let me help you. Otherwise I’m not any good. Nothing’s any good.”

“I’ll stay,” promised Harry, and stayed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this last year, but felt something was wrong with the ending. Since then, [livejournal.com profile] kjp_013 (I think? It's been a really long time!) and [personal profile] bowdlerized and a friend, R, have all looked over it and offered various comments. Thanks so much to all of you.

When Harry thought about it later, those few days after almost losing it completely were some of the most peaceful. The monster had tried to do its worst and he had fought it back. He felt worn out, but Malfoy needed him. So Harry stayed.

The first day Malfoy brought work home with him. They played wizarding chess and had lunch and Malfoy looked at his papers; Harry read Malfoy’s books. Then Malfoy had to go back to work, and Harry made supper. They went out to see a film.

Malfoy suggested Harry see George about working in the shop, like he’d planned, and Harry did. They went to lunch with Hermione. Malfoy came home early and they chased the Snitch in the waning sun. The days were so surprisingly domestic. Harry couldn’t remember having this with another person, ever. Maybe he had those green days in sixth year with Ginny just before Dumbledore died. He didn’t know; he’d been so young, then.

It had been such a long time since Harry had lived with anyone. He’d forgotten it all, the simple touches: Malfoy’s hand touching the back of his to show him where the spoons were, touching Malfoy’s hips to get past him to go to the toilet, fingertips that trailed along arms when they both reached for the same thing. He’d forgotten what it was like to talk late into the night without having to think about going home. He didn’t remember having meals together or making plans.

He’d forgotten how the sun could shine in such a way that it hit the wood floors and made them seem to glow. He’d forgotten he loved kitchens, the way kitchens like Malfoy’s and Molly’s were always small and busy with a thousand things. He’d forgotten what it was to stare into the dark at night and know that not far from you, someone else was dreaming.

It had been a long time since Hogwarts, and when he’d tried to move in with Ginny, he already couldn’t stand himself. Harry had forgotten what it was like to have a home.

In the evening after the film, outside of Malfoy’s flat, Harry kissed him.

Malfoy pulled away. “This isn’t good night.”

“What?”

Malfoy shrugged it off and said very confidently—which always meant he thought no one would listen, “You’re coming in with me.”

“Yes,” said Harry, and kissed him again while Malfoy said, “Oh,” and fumbled with the spell to open his door.

Once inside, Harry kissed Malfoy up against the door, and Malfoy made muffled moaning sounds. Harry could taste him, all his warmth, his heart going like a rabbit’s. Malfoy was nervous and eager and his hands were shaking, and they were going for Harry’s shirt. He pulled it out; then Harry pulled away and closed his hands around Malfoy’s.

“Slower,” Harry said, and kissed him again, a long slow languid kiss.

“Okay,” said Malfoy, and Harry thought he might have agreed to anything. His eyes were glassy and his face was pink and his lips were swollen, and Harry thought he just might kiss him forever if it was only this, just this slow wanton hot roll of feeling, concentrating just on how Malfoy felt and not anything else.

Through the ratcheting of desire, Harry could feel the monster, and pulled away. He leaned his forehead to touch Malfoy’s. Malfoy was breathing noisily, with little catches. “Harry,” he whispered.

“I’ve got to stop.”

Malfoy took a deep breath, swallowed, and suddenly was in complete control of his air flow. “Alright.”

Harry stayed pressed to him, and lifted his hand to hear Malfoy’s heartbeat.

Malfoy pulled away. “Tea,” he said. “Or . . . um. Exploding Snap.”

“I’ll go for a walk.”

“Okay,” Malfoy said lightly, but when Harry looked at him, his face was turned away and his jaw was very hard.

“I’ll be back in a little while.”

“I’ll make the tea.”

Harry walked out under the stars, and thought about going to Chimera Downs. He thought about the field, the waving grass, the slope, and realized he didn’t need them. Instead, he thought of Malfoy, who had looked so pinched and pale and determined after seeing Malfoy Manor. Malfoy had needed him to stay.

Harry walked for half an hour in the starlight, and then turned and went to where he felt he might belong.

*

After a little more than a week, Malfoy and Harry were in on a Saturday, and Malfoy said, “I’ve been thinking about your monster.”

Harry had been reading. Now he stopped, looking at Malfoy warily.

Malfoy was tapping his quill nervously on his desk. “I think you should write a list.”

“A list.”

Malfoy nodded. His voice was very precise. “I think you should try to think of things that might help you—get control of it, and then you should try to do the things on it one at a time.”

Harry looked at him. Malfoy’s shoulders were held very squarely. “Don’t you think if I knew things that might help me, I’d do them?” 

Malfoy nodded again. “I thought you might say that.” He paused. “You do know that’s what you have been doing though, right?”

“What?”

“You got a flat,” Malfoy pointed out. “And an occupation.”

“I guess.”

Malfoy nodded again. They were these short, sharp movements, as though Malfoy was afraid to move too much. “I thought you might draw a blank.” Taking a deep breath, he went on, “I’ve written a list for you. They’re suggestions,” he added quickly. “You don’t have to do them.”

“Let’s see it, then.”

Malfoy licked his lips, and flicked his wand. The parchment he’d been scratching on earlier floated over to Harry.

Harry looked at it. Then he looked at Malfoy. Then he looked at the list. “What does ‘get counseling’ mean?” he asked, his voice low.

Malfoy looked brittle, he was sitting so straight. “I think you need some help.”

Harry resisted putting his hand up to his scar. “You think I’m making it up.”

“No. Oh, no. Harry . . .” Malfoy stood up and came towards him, and then seemed to think better of it, stopping suddenly in the middle of the room. “I think that it’s very real. But you said it yourself. It’s not a literal monster.”

“It’s _something_.”

“Yes.” Agitated, Malfoy seemed to be losing some of his carefulness. “Do you really think it’s something the Dark Lord put there? A Horcrux, or some kind of curse? Because if so, you’ve done a shocking job of keeping it under control. It’s been nearly two years now since you’ve been on your feet again, and seven years since the war; don’t you think the Dark Lord would have something more sinister in mind than—”

“It’s not him. It’s me.”

“That’s fine. I agree. But if it’s you, then you can’t—Harry, you can’t carve that part of yourself away.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t go hacking yourself to bits. Gets very messy. No one survives.”

“I’d survive without it.”

Malfoy came closer and took a hold on Harry’s arm. “I know that getting help isn’t very much like a storybook. And I know that when they came and told you you were a wizard—it must have felt very _much_ like a storybook. Did you think this didn’t happen in the wizarding world? We’re not perfect. Our hearts aren’t magic too.”

“I don’t think it’s a storybook,” Harry said, and pulled away his arm.

“It was just a suggestion.” Malfoy thrust his hands in his pockets and looked down, frowning. “You don’t have to see anyone if you don’t want. But I think it’s—it’s something real. You can try to help it. It’s not a . . . there are no monsters, Harry.”

Harry closed his eyes. Instead of the field, he thought of Malfoy. Malfoy was against the door, looking worn about the mouth, circles under his eyes. He’d leaned back his head on the wood; his hand had still been on the knob.

_I’m not any good_ , he had said. _Nothing’s any good._

Harry swallowed. “Okay. I’ll try the list.”

Malfoy perked up. “You will?” 

“Yeah. Can you tell me something?” Malfoy looked suspicious. “Why did you first come to Chimera Downs?”

“Granger really was getting difficult to work with.”

“But why did you really?”

For a long time, Malfoy was quiet. He was looking down at fidgeting hands. “I was trying to do something right.”

“I’m glad you did it.”

“Don’t,” said Malfoy, in a choked voice, and looked away.

“I think you do a lot of things right. And I think you’re really clever. And capable. I think you’re brave. I think—” He stopped because Malfoy had come up and had his hand twisted in his shirt. He looked feverish.

“Shut up,” said Malfoy, his voice rough. “Just shut up.” He kissed him, a hot, desperate kiss.

Malfoy’s hands pushed in Harry’s hair, and Harry kissed him back. Malfoy tasted good, all of it tasted good, because Malfoy said he wasn’t good and Harry knew he was. Warmth pooled in Harry until it was pushing up his throat, but it didn’t claw like the monster. It sang.

“You didn’t let me finish,” said Harry, when Malfoy pulled back, breath stuttering. “I think you’re spectacular; I think—”

Malfoy pulled him over to the couch. He kissed him, bringing him deeper, until Harry had to pull back next to breathe, breathing in scent and humidity of Malfoy’s skin, his tender, exposed neck. 

Malfoy pulled his head in closer to his throat. “Please do it,” he whispered.

“What?” Harry pulled back.

Malfoy was having trouble breathing. His eyes were large and getting darker. “Don’t make me say it.”

Harry looked at the way Malfoy was baring his neck, and guessed there was only one thing Malfoy could mean. Harry leaned in.

Malfoy had said he liked it, and that was okay. Harry knew other people had liked it, too. Ginny had even liked it; it wasn’t a bad thing by definition. Harry licked and sucked until the spot on Malfoy’s neck was bright red, and then he carefully drew Malfoy’s skin into his mouth, and sucked some more.

Malfoy made a muffled sound. His hips thrust up under Harry, and Harry kept on sucking. Malfoy’s skin would be lilac, once the bruise settled in.

Harry was going to keep at it until it would be black.

It wasn’t right; it wasn’t right; it wasn’t right: the monster. But Malfoy said it was right, and Malfoy did right things. He couldn’t do some of them without Harry.

Harry started in on his neck on the other side.

When he realized Malfoy would probably look like someone who had tried to strangle him, Harry decided to find a different place instead. He tugged on Malfoy’s shirt.

“Don’t.” Malfoy pushed it back down.

“Malfoy.” Harry’s voice was high in the back of his throat. He meant it to be a question, and didn’t know how to ask.

“Yes, Potter, I want you to, don’t stop, keep going, I want you—how many times do I have to tell you that I want you—?”

Harry kissed him. He thought he could kiss him forever. He could crawl right in to Malfoy’s skin and be there forever, and there wouldn’t be a monster. Malfoy could crawl right into him and force the monster out. They could go on kissing and kissing, doing nothing but kissing, and something so simple had really only felt so sweet with just one person before, and Harry had messed that up.

He didn’t want to mess this up.

He pulled away, his head on Malfoy’s shoulder, his face pressed into Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy held him there, and Harry breathed in and in and in, in the bitten abuse on the flesh of Malfoy’s neck, in Malfoy’s shallow breathing, in the way that Malfoy’s arms held him close like he wasn’t ever going to let go. Harry laid a finger on the blossoming purple.

Malfoy’s breath hitched. When his voice came, it sounded distant. “I wonder what it means,” he said, “that I like it.” 

“I wonder what it means that I like to give them.”

Harry could practically hear Malfoy roll his eyes. “Plenty of people leave love bites, Harry.”

“Plenty of people have love bites, Malfoy.”

“Yes. But.” The hand that wasn’t on Harry’s twitched.

For the first time, it occurred to Harry that Malfoy not only didn’t mind, that maybe this was something Malfoy needed. Harry took the hand that had trembled on his. When he started rolling up the sleeve, Malfoy tried to pull it away. Harry held on. “Is it because of this?” 

Malfoy made a disapproving clicking sound somewhere in his throat, but he let Harry look at the Mark. “That,” he agreed.

“Then I’ll do it here,” Harry said, brought Malfoy’s arm up.

“Harry.” Malfoy sounded alarmed.

Harry brushed his hand over the Dark Mark, then began to trace the red raised scar with his fingernail.

Malfoy hissed, trying to pull away again. Harry still held fast.

Then Harry bent, replacing fingernail with tongue.

“S-sweet Merlin,” Malfoy croaked, and he was trembling all over.

Harry began to use his teeth.

The whole thing would be a bruise afterward, a great cracking one, the biggest one ever. Harry thought that it was horrible, and he really wanted it, and that was okay because Malfoy did too, and not just for his sake.

Malfoy held onto his hair. He held it hard, twisting, yanking hard enough that he should have been pulling Harry away, but Harry was still there. There was a litany of little chants; Harry thought Malfoy did it in order not to whimper, but it sounded like, “Oh God, oh sweet Merlin, Harry, please don’t stop, I’ll hate you if you ever stop, oh God, I need, I need, I need—”

Then Malfoy’s hips lifted up, and lifted again, and Harry put his hand on the front of Malfoy’s trousers. He pressed in with the heel of his hand while his mouth still sucked the underside of Malfoy’s arm, and Malfoy came up into him—several times, and then at last in a long, strained arch during which Malfoy made no sound at all.

Then he came back and was breathing hard, and Harry moved his hand away. He licked Malfoy’s arm, then again, and at last pulled his head away.

“Mm,” said Malfoy, and pulled his hand through Harry’s hair. 

“Yeah,” Harry whispered, and felt extraordinarily proud of himself. Malfoy looked so lazy and content and so perfectly happy, and there might have been bruises, but Harry hadn’t once lost control. He was still hard and aching and didn’t even want release, because he really wanted just to hold Malfoy, looking so spent and luxurious in his arms.

Harry held him, looking down at him. Writing a list was an okay idea, he decided.

*

Harry got counseling. 

Her name was Devika Darwin. She had long dark hair she always wore clipped back, and a large smile full of bright teeth. Her eyes were liquid brown, almost amber, and she always said, “Yes, I see,” when Harry talked about his past.

Doctor Darwin was a Muggle. Malfoy didn’t like it. 

“You’re supposed to be able to talk to her,” he said.

Harry shrugged. “I can talk to her.”

“In _lies._ ”

“Like you never lie.” Malfoy got this look on his face, and Harry knew he had said the wrong thing.

But Malfoy just looked away. “You need someone who can listen.”

Harry wanted to touch him, and didn’t know how. “I’m doing the best I can,” he said instead. Somehow it helped him that Doctor Darwin didn’t know the truth.

“I know,” said Malfoy, and touched him.

*

The sex wasn’t perfect. Harry liked snogging Malfoy. He liked the way he went pink all over, and his eyes went bright. He got breathless and exhilarated; he was a lot like he got when playing Quidditch, actually. Harry thought he might be just like that, had Malfoy not been so heart-breakingly nervous. Harry thought Malfoy would be vocal and pushy and fun, and competitive, and athletic, and—sometimes Harry had to stop thinking about what it might be like, if Malfoy ever got any good at actually asking for the things he needed.

As it was, Malfoy was mostly muffled moans, with hands that directed Harry’s when words could not. A few days after Malfoy gave him the list, Harry was making love to him. Their bodies were warm and heated; Malfoy still had his shirt on, but his trousers were open, and Harry had his shirt off. They were on the bed, and Harry kept saying, “Is this alright?” and “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Malfoy kept whispering. “Yes,” and “yes” and “yes.”

“How about this?” Malfoy was above him, and Harry had both of their cocks sliding through one hand. His other head reached up to squeeze Malfoy’s balls, and Malfoy was doing what he could to hold himself above him and manage the jerking of his hips.

“Harry,” Malfoy whispered. His face was flushed almost dark, making his hair look bright.

“Do you like it?” 

Malfoy was strained against him now, and Harry wanted to make him lose control. He wanted him to fall apart; it worked this way to see that Malfoy needed him. Harry couldn’t fall apart himself because Malfoy needed him to be there to pick up the pieces, afterward.

The monster never came when Harry thought of it that way. More often when Harry thought of the monster now, he thought of it along with Chimera Downs. Both were behind him, and it was as though the monster had curled itself up to sleep in that peaceful, broken place, and the present now was all Draco Malfoy: Malfoy touching him, those easy, homey touches like his hand on the back of Harry’s neck, and his thigh lined up with Harry’s when they sat on the couch. Malfoy kissing him, that warm, solid heartbeat pressed up against his, all the languid days of heat and sunshine and Malfoy tipping his head back to laugh. Malfoy on top of him, pink and slick with needy little sounds deep in his throat, going to come at any moment, saying, “I like it,” and “I like it, Harry,” “please, I need you,” and “make me come.”

“Good,” said Harry. “That’s really good.”

Malfoy arched, and the agony in his face was sweet, and Harry wondered whether Malfoy had ever let another person this close, ever. He wondered if Malfoy was just fucked up enough that he wouldn’t let any other person do it besides Harry, and thought that if that were not the case, he could still survive. He didn’t need Malfoy in a cage. He just needed Malfoy.

“Oh God,” whispered Malfoy, and relaxed on Harry’s body, the length of him limp now, like warm messy liquid.

“Yeah.”

“You,” Malfoy croaked, after he’d lain there long enough to get the energy to lift himself up a little.

Harry took the opportunity to lick the undersides of Malfoy’s open lips.

“You didn’t.” Malfoy looked down at Harry’s open trousers. “You didn’t yet.”

“It’s okay,” Harry said, and licked Malfoy’s mouth again.

Malfoy looked momentarily black, and then his features went hard in a way that was utterly surprising on the pink bliss of his post-orgasmic face. “No,” he breathed. “You’re not going to do that,” he said. His hand reached down for Harry’s cock.

Harry clamped a hand over his wrist. “I meant you don’t have to.” He licked dry lips, eyes searching Malfoy’s face. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” said Malfoy. He kissed him, and then his hand went down, and wrapped around Harry’s cock. 

His hand was slow, a little uncertain, a little awkward. Harry felt like grabbing his hand again and moving it faster, closing his eyes and rolling his head back. Instead, he kept his eyes wide open, and watched. He wanted this to be for Malfoy. He wanted to do it for Malfoy, not for any monster or desire for possession that lingered deep inside.

Malfoy’s hand moved faster and Harry’s balls drew up tighter. Malfoy stopped and put oil on his hand, and it went on like that for several minutes, when Malfoy leaned in to Harry’s ear and said, “What do you need?”

“It’s good,” Harry said. His breath was short and sharp.

“Tell me what you want.”

“This. I want you.” Harry’s whole body was taught with the effort of control. 

“Should I use my mouth?” Malfoy asked with a studied nonchalance that belied a rather nervous eagerness.

Harry big back a groan. “You don’t have to.”

Malfoy used his mouth. He moved down, gave the head of Harry’s cock a tentative lick first, and all the sudden Harry was sure Malfoy had used his hands but not his mouth before on someone else. Maybe it was true; it shouldn’t have mattered; Harry didn’t care. But somewhere deep inside the monster liked it very much, and Harry had to stop these thoughts and think of nothing, nothing as Malfoy explored him with his tongue, and at last closed his mouth around him.

Harry’s hips were inclined to jerk, but he steadied them, and he kept trying to think of Malfoy, Malfoy in his shirt, Malfoy being nervous, Malfoy’s first time doing this, and not the way it felt.

Malfoy came up, and replaced his mouth with his hand again, apparently so he could talk in Harry’s ear. “Are you trying to win some kind of competition, Harry?” Malfoy asked, a tone of something like frustration in his voice.

“I—” Harry caught his breath; Malfoy’s fingers twisted and snaked back down between Harry’s legs.

“Is it some kind of sacrifice?”

Malfoy’s hand was hurting on Harry now, too tight and it felt so good; Harry wanted to hurt harder. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Don’t do this. Not with me, not right now. It’s stupid and I hate it and why can’t you just—”

“What?” Harry demanded, his voice choking again inside his throat. His hips were coming involuntarily off the bed now, and every touch of Malfoy’s hand felt like it was going to wring the life out of him, and still he moved up for it every time. “What? What do you want me to—”

“Really?” Then Malfoy met his eyes, and the frustration faded to an unbelievable softness. “Oh Merlin,” he whispered. “Harry—come. I want you to come; can’t you do that?”

For a moment Harry felt helpless. He didn’t think he could say, “Oh.” Yeah, that. Of course. No wonder that Malfoy pitied him, that Harry hadn’t been thinking about something so perfectly natural: that thing that human beings did.

Harry was ready for it, so ready, but on the other side of the edge on which he lay there swirled a chasm of darkness and fear and loss of control, and Harry suddenly realized he’d been walking that edge for what felt like miles. His muscles felt strained with the tautness of not grabbing Malfoy’s hand, not throwing him down, not forcing himself inside Malfoy’s body, without a care or thought for what Malfoy wanted or needed. It was actually physically hurting, not roaring a release and becoming someone he’d never wanted to be.

“Stop.” Harry grabbed Malfoy’s wrist again. Seeing Malfoy’s face contort, Harry said, “No, please. Just for a minute, stop.”

Malfoy looked upset and hurt all at once. “If—”

“No. It’s not like that.” Harry got off the bed, causing Malfoy to reach out in muted protest. Harry stripped down until he was absolutely bare, and then took Malfoy’s hand.

He kissed him there, then kissed him up his arm, his neck. Malfoy shied away. “I want to—I want it to be you, now. Harry, you’re not the only one who . . .” Malfoy trailed off.

“I know. It has to be slow.”

“Oh.” Malfoy thought about that. “I can go for _hours_ , Harry.”

“Can you?” Harry smiled.

Malfoy nodded vigorously. “I’m remarkably persistent. No, really. It’s my best quality.”

“You’ve got many qualities,” Harry said, and kissed him again.

Harry lay back, and Malfoy stretched out on top of him. Harry explored his mouth, and everything was gentle and so warm, and at last Malfoy’s hand moved slowly back to Harry’s cock. “I can make you feel so good, Harry,” Malfoy whispering. “It’s going to feel so good; I can do it for you; it’s going to be so good; I’m so good for you; let me be good for you.”

He made Harry feel like a man, stretched out under him. Malfoy tasted good, and felt good, warm and humid and heavy right where Harry needed. He looked good, bright and flushed, like a light had been turned on inside, and what had been sharp and unharmonious before glowed with a unity of light.

Harry thought about Malfoy. The way Malfoy looked at him and the way Malfoy had forced him to live, the way Malfoy loved classic Muggle rock and would’ve mocked Charlie’s dragons, the way he obsessed and the things he created. He thought too of the way Malfoy needed him, the way Malfoy still didn’t expect to be treated like a man, the way he wouldn’t get close to people, the way he still had such a hard time telling Harry he wanted him.

These were the reasons Harry was here, kissing Malfoy, stroking his tongue with his, making Malfoy moan again despite himself. These were the reasons people kissed and groped and made love in the sunlight, the way Harry had once with Ginny beside a lake when he was closer to an innocence he’d never really had. These were the reasons people were human; these were the reasons people lived.

“Harry,” Malfoy whispered, his voice heavy and liquid and all golden honey rich right in Harry’s ear. “Come.” 

“Draco,” Harry said.

“Come for me.” Malfoy squeezed a little, said, “for me, Harry,” again, and Harry said, “Oh God,” fisting Malfoy’s hair in his hands.

Then he was coming and Malfoy was smiling a blazing smile of triumph. “There. That wasn’t hard, was it?”

*

Devika Darwin was the fourth doctor Harry tried, and when he stayed on he stayed on because he liked her, and not because he could tell she was helping. Even after months and months of counseling, Harry didn’t know whether it was helping. But he did tell her things, and Devika nodded and said, “Yes, I see.” 

He didn’t tell her about the war, about the Dark Lord, about magic. At first, he talked about Draco, about how he was afraid of hurting him, about how he knew his control could slip and he could do so much damage. Devika didn’t ask how he would do damage. She didn’t tell Harry he wasn’t going to hurt anyone, and she didn’t tell Harry he couldn’t destroy the world, if he wanted too. Devika didn’t know either of these things. She just nodded, looking over the rims of her rather gigantic frames, scribbled with a biro on a notepad, and said, “Yes. I see.”

After counseling, the next thing Malfoy had put on the list was See a Healer. In some ways, getting a counselor was easier. When the first three had told Harry that nothing was really wrong with him, he could easily enough decide that they were wrong. Once a Healer told him he was physically healthy, however, Harry would know that it was all in his head.

Malfoy told him that it didn’t matter. The effects were still there, he said. If Harry felt like he was constantly in danger of losing control of his magic, then there were people who could help him learn to control it. Those people were Healers.

The thought of seeing a Healer had never occurred to Harry. He couldn’t ever bring back his parents, stop Voldemort from scarring him, give himself a normal life. Whatever Voldemort had done to him, Harry had always thought he would have to deal with it.

Malfoy just stared at him when he explained. “Just because magic is something you can control with your mind doesn’t mean other people can’t help you. You control your body as well; would you still take medicine if you were sick?”

Harry looked away.

Malfoy didn’t stop staring. “Do you want me to go with you?” 

Taking a deep breath, Harry met his eyes. “Yes.”

*

Malfoy said he knew a Healer in Paris. How Malfoy knew a Healer in Paris, Harry didn’t know, but he didn’t want the media circus of going to St. Mungo’s. Even if he could trust a Healer there to be discreet, someone still might see him; word might still leak out. Then what had happened after Harry had quit the Aurors would happen all over again: he’d be splashed all over the pages of the _Prophet_ and _Witch Weekly_ and every other wizarding publication, and everyone would be wondering whether he was the Golden Boy or insane or the next Dark Lord. No one ever wondered whether he was just Harry.

The Healer in Paris was a man from Egypt named Amon. He had dark skin and silver hair, and a short stocky body that would not have impressed most people. He asked Harry what his symptoms were, and Harry was sure he didn’t mean symptoms like, “I have a monster in my chest.” Maybe he did mean for Harry to say, “I have anger control problems,” but that was exactly what he was afraid of, and so instead Harry explained exactly how it felt: the clawing, climbing, shaking loss of control.

Malfoy stood very close.

Healer Amon went through a series of them, asking things like, “How often does this occur?” and “Do you have a magical response?” He didn’t say Harry was making it up, or that he didn’t kill Dolores Umbridge. In fact, he reminded Harry a lot of Doctor Darwin, and the way she was very pragmatic and clinical.

At the end Healer Amon asked, “For how long has this been going on?” and then, “Why didn’t you see a Healer before?”

And Harry had to ask, “Does that mean it’s real?”

Healer Amon looked at him above his glasses.

Malfoy glanced at Harry apologetically, and then told Healer Amon, “He means purely psychological.”

Healer Amon said it was hard to tell, and that he cast some diagnostic spells. 

In the end, he said that he couldn’t find anything wrong with Harry. Harry’s shoulders sagged, because of course he had been hoping that someone could find something wrong, because that meant he wasn’t just messed up. Malfoy had told him that wasn’t so—he was telling him that now by clamping his hand around one of Harry’s wrists. But then Healer Amon took off his glasses, and looked at Harry with sharp black eyes.

You may never know, was what he said. Some curses are undetectable, and some even effect the mind. He said that what Harry was suffering from sounded a lot like psychologic trauma, and Malfoy’s grip went very tight. But Healer Amon also said that that whether caused by trauma or not, Harry had lost control of his magic, and that could exacerbate or cause any number of mental conditions, and that he should have gone to a Healer sooner. 

“Accidental magic is very dangerous,” Healer Amon said in a very sharp, clipped voice. 

“Accidental magic?” Harry said.

Healer Amon raised his brows over his glasses. “You said that the ground shakes.”

“Sometimes there are tree stumps,” Malfoy said helpfully.

“I thought that was . . .” Harry hadn’t known what he thought that was.

(“You thought that was your melodrama,” Malfoy told him later. “You can comfort yourself in the knowledge that you were entirely wrong. As you usually are.” He smiled affectionately, and Harry still didn’t understand his sense of humor.)

Healer Amon was still looking at him over his glasses. “A result of your terrible and overwhelming power?” he finished for Harry.

“Well,” Harry said uncomfortably. “Yes.”

“You are a powerful wizard, Mr. Potter, but you aren’t Voldemort.” Healer Amon said the name without a flinch, but Malfoy’s knuckles were white where he clenched Harry’s arm. “Even if you were as powerful as he was, magic itself isn’t an evil force. It’s as natural as wind and water—out of control, these elements can cause damage. Stabilized, they aid our survival.”

“Oh,” was all Harry could think of to say. He suddenly felt like he was a child again, and this was a professor at Hogwarts.

“What could cause a loss of control of accidental magic?” Malfoy’s fingers were digging into Harry’s arm.

Harry waited for Healer Amon to say the Killing Curse, or whatever ancient magic his mum had used to protect him, or something about Horcruxes. Instead, Healer Amon started going on about trauma or something and emotional strain.

“But what about the war?” Harry said.

Healer Amon frowned. “Mr. Potter,” he said, very patiently. I am talking about the war.” He was nothing at all like Snape, and yet he reminded Harry very much of Snape anyway. “Did you think you were the only one?”

The only one.

The only

One.

The Chosen One.

Chosen for this, he was supposed to be chosen for this, and Harry somehow wanted to be, because then it wouldn’t be his fault, then it would be the war all over again, and it wouldn’t be his fault, it had never been his fault—

Malfoy’s hand tightened again on his arm. “What should we do?” he asked, and he was asking Healer Amon, but he meant it for Harry. It was for Harry; Harry was meant to hear, because it was not, _What should he do? What should Harry do? What should I do?_ It was:

What should _we_ do?

Healer Amon told them.

*

It began with _Wingardium Leviosa_.

Harry began with brief exercises in magic, just the simple spells, spells he’d learned that very first year in school. He used Malfoy’s old hawthorn wand, and it wasn’t until he began to use it that he realized he hadn’t used a wand in over a year. It was difficult to push all that power through that tiny channel, but he was getting better at it.

He was doing _Wingardium Leviosa_ , no problem, and that was when Malfoy said he should talk to Ron and Hermione. Not just talk about music and the weather and George’s shop, but actually talk. Ron and Hermione were on the list, so Harry went and he told them everything.

He told them about Chimera Downs. He told them how much damage he still wanted to do, and how hard it was to stop it. He even told them how he wanted to hurt them sometimes, but he wasn’t that, he wasn’t; he wasn’t Voldemort; he had never wanted to be anything but Harry, but inside of Harry was a monster, and he told them that, too. He told them about Doctor Darwin and Healer Amon; he told them about _Wingardium Leviosa_ and the Elder Wand.

Hermione tried to talk about magical theory, because she could see that Harry needed to move on from this, move on, move on. She tried to talk about accidental magic, traumatic stress, wands and how they worked; she tried to talk about the biological interaction between magic, the mind, and body.

Ron’s hand clamped down on Hermione’s shoulder. “I bet it was Voldemort’s Horcrux,” Ron said.

Hermione glanced up at him in surprise. “I’m not sure that’s what—”

“That made you lose control of your magic,” Ron said, “and once the accidental magic started happening, it started feeding off itself, just like Healer Amon said.”

Hermione glanced from Harry to Ron, then back again. “Yes,” she said firmly. “I’m sure that’s it.”

“Thanks,” said Harry. He paused. “It’s taking a long time, but I’m kind of getting used to the idea of the idea that I might just be a crazy person.”

“But you should still learn to control your magic,” Hermione said anxiously.

“Yeah. I’m going to.”

Ron shoved his hands in his pockets. “Should’ve helped you do it before. I didn’t know what it was. I thought it was . . .” He looked down, scuffing his shoe.

“It was never you,” Harry said.

Ron lifted his head. “I know,” he said, “but it was us.” He waved a hand at Harry’s protest. “I don’t mean anything we did; I meant . . . all three of us. Everything we went through. I don’t think we were . . .” Now Ron waved a hand at Hermione. “We had stuff to get through too, and we needed you, and didn’t know how to—”

“Ron,” Hermione said, in her quelling way. “He doesn’t need to—”

“No,” said Harry. “It’s . . . it’s good to hear, actually. That you . . . you’re not perfect either, and you needed me. I’m just sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Hermione rushed to say. “You don’t ever need to be sorry for anything, Harry. Not with us.”

“Sometimes I want to be,” Harry said.

Ron just shrugged. “Sometimes I want to be, too.”

*

Harry stuck to the plan Healer Amon had laid out for him. He practiced rudimentary wand usage every day, and Malfoy helped him. He did not use his wandless magic. He took the potions Healer Amon prescribed, and he saw the Healer regularly. He even told Doctor Darwin about it.

“Yes,” said Malfoy. “And how did that go over?”

“Well,” said Harry. “I told her I was seeing a physical therapist. And that he was making me take vitamins. And that I do yoga.”

“Is lying to your therapist and therapy in and of itself?” Malfoy wondered.

Harry thought about it. “Sort of. Yeah.”

“Yes,” said Doctor Darwin. “I see.”

Harry also told Doctor Darwin about the way he wasn’t good at orgasming. He was embarrassed at first, but Doctor Darwin said, “Yes, I see.” She asked a lot of questions, and was very kind.

Harry found that he liked to tell her things, someone who didn’t know anything about his past and didn’t care particularly about his future. He wondered if that was why things had been so easy with Malfoy at first, at Chimera Downs. He wasn’t sure, because he had thought at that time he wouldn’t have been able to feel the peace with strangers that he had felt with Malfoy. But things were different now, and Harry was trying to make a go of it with Malfoy.

One day after Harry had been seeing Doctor Darwin for two months, she said, “I would like you to see a psychiatrist.”

“Er,” said Harry. “Aren’t you . . . ?”

“I’m a therapist,” Doctor Darwin said. “It means I can’t prescribe medicine.”

“You think I need medicine?”

She told him to see the other doctor, and to be very careful about his medications. Harry didn’t like the word, “medication”, and talked to Healer Amon about it instead.

Healer Amon’s mouth tightened, and he wanted to know why Harry hadn’t told him he was seeing a counselor, and then he asked what kind of medications she meant. Once Harry told him, Healer Amon reviewed Harry’s potions regimen and made changes. He said he would get Harry to talk to a mind Healer he knew, and that that Healer could help him get potions that could make him feel calmer and happier.

“What about the Muggle stuff?” said Harry.

“A lot of it is exactly the same thing.” Healer Amon looked at Harry over his glasses. “Have you discussed this with Mr. Malfoy?”

“Well,” said Harry. “I will.”

“He’ll be able to help you decipher the differences and similarities between the Muggle medicine and the potions, and will be of assistance with dosages.”

Harry laughed a little. “Malfoy doesn’t know anything about Muggle medicine.” Then he thought about it, and looked at Healer Amon, who had not reacted. But Healer Amon was a very good doctor, who first of all would probably have not said that about Malfoy if it weren’t true, and second of all would not react once he realized Harry didn’t know that it was true. “Does he?” said Harry.

“I’m don’t discuss my other patients.”

“You mean Malfoy . . .” Harry tried to figure out what that could possibly mean. “Malfoy is your patient?”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” said Healer Amon.

*

That was the first row Harry and Malfoy had since Chimera Downs. Harry was so frightened and angry and hurt, he didn’t wait for Malfoy to explain. He thought that he could feel the monster. Something was clawing up his chest.

The gound didn’t shake; Malfoy’s flat didn’t shake. Harry felt himself grow cold, but he kept on blinking. The exercises Healer Amon had been having him do must be helping, he thought. Then he finally focused on Malfoy, who was pinched and pale and holding his ground, and somehow everything was easier.

There was something in that narrow face that had settled in Harry’s heart at a time when he most needed it. Now the sight of it, haggard and trying to be brave, made him able to think of other things, able to calm down. For the first time, Harry considered that the monster may never go away, and that he might not be able to keep it down all the time. For the first time, he considered that it could change into something else.

This was not a feeling that could destroy the world, that could topple buildings or kill people with a glance. This, perhaps, was what some people would call anger. Harry still wanted to shake Malfoy until his teeth clattered, but maybe that was normal too.

When Harry had finally calmed down enough, Malfoy told him that he had been seeing Healer Amon since shortly after the war. His mother had brought him there, when once Voldemort had left their house completely, Malfoy still couldn’t hold his food down, or sleep at night. Healer Amon had given him a mental aid potion, something a lot like the Muggle medicines Doctor Darwin had wanted for Harry.

Vernon Dursley used to snort at pills like that, saying they were for weirdos, or people who were weak-willed. Petunia had looked strained about the mouth, when he said that, and hadn’t mentioned it again.

Malfoy had taken the potions until he could sleep again and get through a day without jumping at shadows. Then he had lessened his dosage. Then he had stopped completely, but he still sometimes saw Healer Amon, and still sometimes started the potions again for brief periods, when everything seemed more difficult than before.

He’d taken them the whole time Harry had been in Romania.

“You could have told me,” Harry said.

That was when Malfoy lost his own temper. “Why? So you could help me? You want to fucking hold me, Potter, and tell me everything will be alright, when you can barely keep together yourself?” 

“I don’t know.” Harry tried to think about Chimera Downs, tried to think about Malfoy coming down and saying, _I’m here because helping you is going to help me. I’m here so you can fix one last person._

_I’m here so you can save me._

Malfoy was right. It never would have worked. “I’m doing better,” Harry said.

Malfoy almost flinched at that, as though the very thought was worrisome. “I know,” he said, in a softer way. Let me keep helping you. Let me just . . .”

All of a sudden, Harry knew what the problem was. “You can,” he said. “You are.” He took a step closer. “Malfoy, I’m not going to leave you just because you’re—I’m not. We’re both in this. We both need this. I’m . . . Malfoy, I’m not going anywhere.

Malfoy sneered. “Is that what you’re going to do, Potter? Stay? Share Christmas with my family, ask after my mother’s flowers? My father’s health? Pretend to care for my sake?”

“Yes.”

Malfoy looked shocked. “ _Don’t._ ”

That was when Harry realized the worst of it: that Malfoy had never thought anyone could care about something purely for his sake. 

“I would,” said Harry, and took a step toward Malfoy, who was holding himself rigid. “I’d play Exploding Snap with Lucius, if that was what you wanted.” He told Malfoy what he’d told him once before, and hoped this time Malfoy would believe it. “I’d do anything.”

Malfoy shuddered, and let go of something he must have been holding onto very tightly. His shoulders slumped, and whatever it had been came to rest between them, quiet and inert. Harry walked right through it, and closed the space between them. “Will you tell me next time?” 

Malfoy made a weak huffing sound. “Last time I told you something that was on my mind, you had a crack up.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, “but I’m getting better.”

Malfoy sighed. “Just don’t run away.”

“I’ll come to you if you come to me.”

Malfoy thought about that for a while. “Can we have that rule with sex, as well?”

“Well,” said Harry. “There’s nothing wrong with trying.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to everyone who helped me with this, including [livejournal.com profile] alaana_fair, [livejournal.com profile] kjp_013, [livejournal.com profile] lusiology, [livejournal.com profile] fat_teaspoon, [personal profile] bowdlerized, RR, and most of all, [livejournal.com profile] scabbyfish. I miss you, hon.
> 
> Thanks also to everyone who waited so long.

“What’s next?” Harry asked. Malfoy was curled up beside him, still in a shirt, but he had nothing else on. Harry was just in jeans, and he thought it was one of the most decadent things he’d done in a very long time, being in bed with Malfoy on a Sunday afternoon, the sun slanting through the blinds.

“Mm,” said Malfoy. “Pasta, probably.”

Harry dragged his hand up Malfoy’s back, his neck, ruffled Malfoy’s hair. “I meant, for you and me.”

This time Malfoy purred. “I’ve been thinking about that too.”

“Have you?”

“Yes.” Malfoy paused thoughtfully. He turned his head to put his chin on Harry’s chest and looked at him that way with bright eyes. “I’ve been thinking I might slick up my fingers. I might slip one inside you; I would stretch you out. It’s the sweetest thing, Harry. You feel very free. And then when I put another one inside you, you’ll feel like you can take anything.”

Malfoy was getting much better at intimacy.

Harry gulped. “Malfoy.”

Malfoy turned his head away again, so that the side of his face rested on Harry’s chest. He drew lines on Harry’s skin with a fingertip, and said, “Are you ever going to call me Draco?”

“Yes.”

Malfoy went on tracing lines. “Once I’m done with that, I would like to come inside you.”

Catching his breath, Harry stopped Malfoy’s hand. “Draco.”

“Too soon?”

Harry released his breath. “I want to.”

“But not yet.”

Harry let his hand go. “No.”

Malfoy went on tracing things. “I suspected as much. But I thought you should know. You can have it whenever you want. When you’re ready. Just tell me.”

Harry’s chest constricted under Malfoy’s head, under his hand, his words. He thought he felt the monster clawing and hated himself, not knowing why.

Then just as suddenly, it all let go, because Malfoy was lit up in gray light, and his hand was tracing circles, and he would wait. This wasn’t a monster, Harry realized. This must be what normal people felt when they realized how much they loved someone.

“I’ll tell you,” said Harry, and put his hand in Malfoy’s hair.

“Mm.”

They were quiet for a long time, Harry’s hand settled hot on Malfoy’s lower back. Malfoy let him ruck up the shirt there to touch bare skin, and it was one of Harry’s favorite spots. Malfoy’s skin was so smooth, and there was a dip there, down from the sharp wings of his shoulder blades and the round curve of his bony arse. Harry never told Malfoy, because Malfoy would rightly just say that he was a crazy person, but Harry wished sometimes he could stay there, in that valley on Malfoy’s body, stay there forever and never leave it because it was so quiet and beautiful and such a hidden secret spot on Malfoy; his hand fit splayed there as though it belonged. 

“Are you ever going to tell me what it was like for you before you came to Chimera Downs?” Harry asked.

Malfoy paused. “Do I have to?”

“No.” Harry walked his fingers down Malfoy’s spine. “Was it hard to do those things? Get a flat, and your job?”

For a while, Malfoy didn’t say anything, doodling circles still on Harry’s skin, alternating the calloused pad of his finger and his bitten down nail. Harry never would have thought Malfoy would have bitten down nails, but he had. It was a bad habit. Malfoy sighed. “Yes. It was hard.”

“How did you do it?”

“Well, I saw a ‘for rent’ sign; I talked to this nice lady . . .”

“Did you go flat-hunting, like I did?”

For some reason, Malfoy laughed quietly into Harry’s chest. “Yes, Harry. It’s fairly normal, you know.”

“I know. I was just wondering.”

Malfoy was quiet again for a long time. When he spoke, his voice sounded reluctant. “If you must know, I wish I could get a place to live I actually like.”

Harry wondered why anyone could possibly want to live anywhere else, with the sunlight slanting through that way, and Malfoy snuggled up to him so warm and heavy and sleepy. The battered wood floors seem to glow, and the closeness of the room made everything feel safe, and his hand was on that spot on Malfoy’s back. Harry never wanted to leave. “You don’t like it here?”

Malfoy put his chin on Harry’s chest again, his expression incredulous. “Did you know me at all in school?”

“Yes. You changed.”

“I matured.” Malfoy turned his head back. “I didn’t turn into a ginger headed alien.”

“The Weasleys aren’t alien.”

“I never said they were.”

Harry moved his hand in the valley of Malfoy’s lower back. “How come you don’t like it?”

Malfoy pulled back to look at him, and as he did so his eyes softened almost imperceptibly. “I know how you like to be clausterphobic, Harry. It’s just not for me.”

“Why don’t you get a different place?”

Malfoy looked surprised, then leaned in again on Harry. “I don’t know. I suppose I . . .”

“What?”

“I suppose this works. The sort of place I want . . . there’s no reason to get it any how.”

“You said you didn’t want to live in Malfoy Manor again,” Harry said.

“No. Of course not.” 

“But you’d like a place like that.”

“No.”

“Then like what?”

“I like the Goyles’.”

Harry startled. “The Goyles’.”

Malfoy pulled away. “Whatever. It’s stupid.”

Harry pulled him back. “No. It’s not stupid.”

“Yeah.” Sliding out of his grasp, Malfoy got up, swiped his trousers from the floor and put them on. He didn’t put on pants, and something about that—Malfoy just in his white t-shirt, in his kahki trousers, still looking rumpled and rather thoroughly fucked, made Harry just ache. Malfoy was so thin, with awkward angles everywhere, the turn of his mouth was lined and unhappy; light was coming from behind him.

The monster had never been farther from Harry’s mind.

“Hey,” said Harry. “It’s okay. I just didn’t expect . . .”

Malfoy smiled grimly. “I know. Of course. Who would really expect Draco Malfoy to want a house with a picket fence and a family and yard?”

Oh, thought Harry. _Oh._ “Getting married was on your list,” he said, his voice low.

Malfoy glanced at him, his expression unreadable. “Not any more.”

“Yes, but . . . did you want . . . ?”

“Didn’t you?”

Harry looked at his hands. “Yes.”

Malfoy went over to the window, looking out the blinds. The flat was in a wizard building, but the street was not, much like Grimmauld Place. Outside was a busy city street, not far from a tube station. “I always dreamed I would,” Malfoy said. “Of course, consciously I dreamed I would be Minister for Magic or maybe a magizoologist. But it was there, in the back of my mind. Get married. Have a son. Grow up just like . . .” 

“Yeah.”

Malfoy still wasn’t looking at him. “We were very close.”

“What?”

“My mum and dad and I. I never pleased my father, but—but we were very close.”

Harry thought back over what Malfoy had said. “You mean you’d want to live with them?”

“What?” Malfoy glanced back at him. “No. Merlin preserve us. One cannot have the Malfoy patriarch far enough away, thanks.”

“Well, what you said about wanting a house . . .”

“I just mean it’s nice. You can have . . . friends, and it feels . . . there used to be the most splendid parties at the Manor, did you know?”

Mutely, Harry shook his head. It was more than Malfoy had ever said about his family, ever.

Malfoy nodded. “There were fairy lights, and floating lanterns on the pond. You could take a gondola, and there was always a band . . . I hated them, naturally. They never played Soul Sucking Succubi. There was dancing, and everybody dressed like . . .”

Trailing off, Malfoy stayed there looking out the window. Harry stood up, still in just jeans, and came up behind him. Malfoy spared him another glance. “Put your arms around me,” he said, and looked out the window. 

Harry put his arms around him. When Malfoy settled his own arms over his, Harry moved a hand and found the raised red lines of the Dark Mark on Malfoy’s skin. “Do you miss it?”

“No. I was a kid. Those parties were all so old and stuffy, and I got in trouble for nicking the canapés.” Malfoy leaned back into him. “I do miss parties, though. The way there are lots of people, and everyone is happy. We used to have cracking ones in Slytherin.”

Harry remembered Malfoy’s bright face at Harry’s welcome home. “I didn’t know.”

“We don’t have them any more. There are too few of us.” Malfoy looked out the window, his hand covering Harry’s where it stroked the Dark Mark. “Since the war, we haven’t always been so good at being happy.” 

Harry kissed him. He kissed him behind his ear just like he liked, then down his neck. Slowly, he turned Malfoy around, and then went down to his knees.

“Let’s go to the bed,” Malfoy said, but his hand sank into Harry’s hair and he didn’t move.

“I want to here.” Harry opened Malfoy’s trousers. “I think you should never wear pants.”

“There’d be chafing.” Malfoy was petting his hair, that line at the side of his mouth.

“Yeah, but it’s so hot,” breathed Harry, and proceeded to go down.

*

Some time later they had the pasta Malfoy had guessed at. Malfoy had come and then reciprocated; Harry had still protested. He was not good at letting go. Malfoy insisted. It took over half an hour.

Harry was weary and felt more drained than satisfied; he was sure that Malfoy’s jaw hurt. Malfoy had ended it by putting two fingers in him, like he had said he would, slow and slippery with lube and Harry was very tight; it was better than he had remembered, than he dreamed. Still, in those times the monster felt closer than any other time, and he wished that Malfoy didn’t seem to need his own release just as much as he seemed to need Malfoy’s.

Malfoy didn’t seem to mind it. He’d smirked afterwards, the line beside his mouth gone deep. His eyes had been quite bright. He always looked like he’d accomplished something spectacular when he made Harry come, rather like he looked when he caught the Snitch or made years of animosity up to someone in a kitchen. Harry supposed it was all worth it just for that.

Harry was thinking this about Malfoy after they finished the pasta. They were in the living room and Malfoy was fixing his wireless, Harry idly watching him. Malfoy was humming idly, off tune. “Did you say you wanted to be a magizoologist?” Harry asked suddenly.

Ceasing to hum, Malfoy glanced at him briefly. “I was nine.”

“Okay. But a zoologist?”

“Did you think I wanted to be a Ministry clerk working in Regulation of Magical Creatures my whole life?”

Harry went still. “I thought you liked your job.”

Malfoy was busy with his screwdriver and things. “It’s fine.”

“But it’s not what you wanted.”

“I _wanted_ to be Minister for Magic,” said Malfoy, tinkering with something in the radio. “That should give you some indication of why some things don’t work out.”

“Okay. But what do you want?”

Malfoy was quiet for a while, still tinkering. At last he glanced at Harry again. “You haven’t talked to Mrs. Weasley-Thomas yet.”

Talking to Ginny was on Harry’s list. “We were talking about you.”

“Yes. I know.” Malfoy went back to his radio. “Are you afraid?”

Harry thought about that. “Yes.”

“Why?” When Harry didn’t answer, Malfoy put in a delicate little screw, and didn’t look at him. “Do you still love her?” 

“Malfoy,” Harry began.

“It’s alright. I’m not jealous.” Malfoy twisted the screwdriver. “Well, maybe I’m a little jealous. But I don’t mind it. We all have dreams, Harry. Some of them don’t come true.”

Harry looked at Malfoy’s bright head, bent over the radio. His fingers were long and slender, nimble with the delicate work. Sun was slanting over him through the window. “Some dreams change.”

Malfoy finally, he got the screw in, and then very carefully set the radio aside. Just as carefully, he looked up. “I wanted to be the Care for Magical Creatures professor at Hogwarts.” 

Harry sat there for a moment, trying to process.

“I know. It’s a little ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous.” Harry thought about it. “Have you thought about teaching elsewhere?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“My father would never approve.”

“Why bloody not?”

“Malfoys shouldn’t teach.”

“What?” 

Malfoy shrugged. 

Harry took several moments to process this. “So,” he said slowly. “You’re not going to do what you want because your _dad_ doesn’t think it’s posh enough.”

Malfoy flicked a glance his way. “It was instilled in me at a very young age. Even if now I can intellectually say it’s unreasonable, I can’t help the gut feeling.”

“What gut feeling?”

Malfoy rubbed his arm. “Shame.”

That was not the first time Harry thought about how much Malfoy’s parents might have fucked him up, but it was also not the last. “Malfoy,” he said, and started coming over toward the table.

“Mine isn’t a storybook ending either,” Malfoy said. “I don’t have to get everything that I want. Just some of them.” His looked up at Harry.

“You deserve them,” said Harry, sitting down beside him.

“Not everything.” Malfoy’s eyes slid away. Absently, he rubbed his arm.

“You should still try.”

“Some things are ingrained.”

Harry moved his hand, put his own over Malfoy’s Dark Mark. “I got my scar when I was one year old.”

At last, Malfoy looked at him, and held his eyes. “I’ll try if you will.”

“Do you mean it?” 

Malfoy looked at Harry’s hand on his arm, and said quietly, “I can, if it’s for you.”

“It’s for me.” Harry scraped a nail across the scar raised on Malfoy’s skin.

When Malfoy looked at him, there was a light in his eyes and a smile beside his mouth. “Aren’t you just greedy,” he said, low and lazy.

“I think we’re worth it,” said Harry.

*

If Malfoy had had a list after the war, Harry was learning, on it would have been the same things he had put on Harry’s, that night at Chimera Downs: _get a flat, get an occupation._ If Malfoy had one now, Harry would have put on it, _get a better flat_ and _get a better occupation._

They were not such monumental things. Malfoy had done pretty well for himself, considering. He didn’t need to _get counseling_ , anyway. But Harry kept thinking of Malfoy looking pale and worn, leaning against the door. _I’m not any_ good, Malfoy had said. Realizing Malfoy might need him as much as he needed Malfoy made Harry want to keep going forward.

So he did.

When Harry saw Ginny, he knew that somewhere deep inside, there was old ache. He thought that he it if he looked for it, it could start to hurt again. But he didn’t look for it, and when Ginny smiled, he could smile too.

They had tea. Ginny was older, her features a little less fresh, the innocence quite gone and replaced with little lines about the eyes, and a firmness to the mouth. Harry thought she had never been quite so beautiful.

In the end, she kissed his cheek, and thanked him, and told him she was so glad they could do this. “And I should have said this a while ago,” she went on, “but I just couldn’t.”

“Said what?” said Harry.

“I think I was maybe jealous.” Then she lifted her brown eyes to him. “I think Draco Malfoy is . . . okay.”

Harry smiled. “He still cheats at Quidditch.”

“He does. But I think . . . I think finally I can forgive him.” Ginny looked warm like a summer morning: fiery, gorgeous and full of promise for the future. 

Harry looked at her, and felt forgiven too.

*

Malfoy had begun to look for a different job. He got recommendations from Hermione, and looked into positions at the Magical Museum of London. Harry thought that if Malfoy thought that teaching grade school was déclassé, for some reason Harry couldn’t fathom, he thought becoming a higher level education professor might be a step up. Besides, he could go on writing those papers with Sinclair. Grudgingly, Malfoy began to look into wizarding universities.

Then they went to Hogwarts, and had tea in Hagrid’s new little house by the lake, which he shared as a summer residence with Madame Maxine. “You owe me so big, Potter,” Malfoy said afterward.

“I thought it might be nice.”

“You thought the mermaids might be nice, too.”

“So says the bloke who’s got a Sea Witch for a girlfriend.”

“You leave Bettina out of this,” said Malfoy, righteously indignant on the behalf of his fishy liaison.

“You liked Madame Maxine,” said Harry.

Malfoy brightened. “Such a lovely woman. Powerful, too. I like that.”

“Besides, I thought your discussion on the bloodlust of unicorns with Hagrid was rather nice.”

“It was, rather,” Malfoy said happily. “I didn’t know that about their hooves being sharp. I think the lightning from the eyes is bollocks, though. But when you consider griffins—don’t look at me like that, Potter. Hagrid was still shite at Care for Magical Creatures.”

“Like what?” said Harry, innocently.

“Like you think he’s Sinclair,” said Malfoy. “I utterly resent that comparison on the behalf of my good friend, and you should stop making it.”

Now Harry’s voice was contemplative. “I wonder if Hagrid’s seen Batman.”

Besides looking for a job, Malfoy was also looking for a new flat. He was very methodical about this, circling sections of the _Prophet_ in bright red ink, and keeping a running spreadsheet on one of his walls with every possibility listed out. He was also very reluctant about this, because there was something wrong with every one of them.

“Are you Goldilocks?” Harry asked him.

“It’s got to be right, Potter.”

“I think you’re putting it off.”

Malfoy bristled. “Constant vigilance! That’s what it takes. You wouldn’t know; I did all your flat hunting for you.”

“You mean you tailed after me pestering me about my love life while I did all the leg work.”

Malfoy flapped a hand. “We both know I do all the work in this relationship. Love life pestering was heavy labor.”

Harry looked down. Once, in one of Malfoy’s rare moods of confession, he had told Harry all about Alfonse. The relationship hadn’t been serious; he had been trying to get over Harry. That hadn’t worked as well as Malfoy would have liked, because he had liked Alfonse. Harry had been perversely jealous, and yet he knew that that was okay, too. Afterwards, he had just been sorry it had taken him so long to be able to give Malfoy what he needed.

Malfoy snorted loudly. “Oh my god. Are you brooding again? What do I even do with you?”

“Have sex?” 

Malfoy snorted again, and went back to his spreadsheet.

Harry kept on looking down at his hands. “Did you hear that Justin Finch-Fletchly has a son? His wife delivered a few weeks ago.”

Malfoy paused in his color coding, then went back to writing things on walls. “Yes,” he said. “I heard.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“I mean—”

Malfoy sighed, and put down his colored ink. “I know what you mean.” He allowed himself to think about it, and his shoulders settled. “I’m really glad there’s a child in that house again,” was what he finally sad. “And I’m triply glad that kid has nothing to do with me, or anything else.”

“Good.”

“I can’t live _here_ ,” Malfoy said, and crossed off another option. “There isn’t any skylight on the left side of the attic.”

Harry sighed.

*

One by one, Harry tried to go through his own list. Malfoy had added, _find out what really happened to Umbridge_ , but he had said the things he put on it were suggestions anyway, and Harry didn’t take that one. He knew what he thought, deep down, something that would always be true whether he had done it or not: he had wanted to kill her. Not to protect anyone, not to save the world, but because he was tired, and he hated her. Harry would always know that he had felt that way, and use that knowledge to stop himself from ever hurting anyone ever again.

Instead, he visited Umbridge’s closest living family. Malfoy thought that this was also mad, and Harry supposed he had a point. He did not know how to go to Umbridge’s sister and say, “I’m sorry for killing your kin.” He went anyway, to say that he was sorry, maybe, or to express condolence.

Umbridge’s sister was a Squib in Manchester named Felicity. She welcomed Harry and assumed he was an old student, and Harry did not correct her. She plied Harry with tea and biscuits, and instead of cats she had children. There were four of them, and pictures of them everywhere, artwork by them; Felicity’s cloak had been “decorated” by them; she seemed more like Molly Weasley than Dolores Umbridge. 

They spent the afternoon speaking of “dear Dolores”. Even though Felicity said that they had become estranged, she waxed poetic about “the good old days”, when she and “dear Dolores” played in mud and were always getting into trouble. Harry never did tell her the truth or why he came, and Felicity seemed perfectly content not to know. When he left, she seemed sad that he had not met the children, and delighted that at least “dear Dolores” had had one friend.

“I used to worry,” said Felicity. “Even after she passed.”

Harry realized then he would never tell Felicity DeVivre, nee Umbridge, that he was sorry, but that he was pretty sure he had killed her sister. Instead he said, “I’m sorry that she’s gone.”

Felicity DeVivre burst into tears, and Harry wondered how often happiness could be better than dredging up the past.

Other time, he supposed, it was necessary. Sometimes, Doctor Darwin did it a lot, asking questions about his childhood. He had told her that his mother and father were dead, and this made her scribble a lot and say, “Yes, I see,” several times. More often than not these days he talked about the Dursleys.

Harry had so often thought he was the way he was because Voldemort had tried to kill him when he was just over one year old. His mother’s love had saved him, and Voldemort had left a peace of himself with Harry. At Chimera Downs, Harry had tried to leave that darkness behind, that and all the misery Voldemort had brought after that.

Thinking of the cupboard, Harry wondered if perhaps his monster had come from somewhere else entirely, which meant he never could be rid of it. He could only live with it.

“Come live with me,” said Harry, in an afternoon of mutual quiet and solace in Malfoy’s flat.

“What?” Malfoy looked up from his book.

“I said come live with me.”

“I . . . Harry, where?”

“Let’s live at Chimera Downs.”

Malfoy snorted. “Harry, that place is even smaller than this one.”

“We’ll tear it down. We can build a house. Come on, it’s on your list.”

Malfoy looked interested in spite of himself. “Will it have a bath?”

“Whatever you want.”

“I do like baths,” Malfoy said, contemplatively.

Harry snorted. “I bet you do.”

“Hmm,” Malfoy purred. “I bet you would, too.”

“I think I know if I like baths or not.”

Malfoy hummed again and stood. “But you’ve never taken one with me.” He came over to the couch where Harry sat, and then was draped over him, kissing him.

“I suppose that’s a yes,” Harry murmured.

*

Six months after Harry asked Draco to move in with him, they had their first party at the new house on Chimera Downs.

Draco knew how to throw a party. Out back there was a large space cleared for dancing under the trees. Malcolm Baddock was in a band; they played jazz. Parkinson harrumphed and requested the Soul Sucking Succubi. Lanterns floated in the night, and the fence was draped in fairy lights. Ribbons and tiny bells shivered the branches, and laughter, full and rich and warm, drifted on the night air.

Harry was in the front yard, waiting for the final guests. Luna and Draco were inside, deep in a conversation about Snorkacks. Hagrid was no doubt dancing with Madame Maxine; Arthur was talking to Goyle about Disneyland, and Ginny seemed to be falling slowly in love with Sinclair while Libanos and Dean joked about it on the sidelines. The kids were playing with Teddy. Andromeda was talking to Molly Weasley, who had killed her sister.

It was the nicest party Harry had ever been to. He had never much cared for parties, having never gone to any when he was young, and later ones ending in disaster like Bill and Fleur’s wedding. But he was beginning to see the appeal of them, if you could have everyone you loved in just one place, and not want to tear it all down because somehow joy was more difficult to deal with than suffering.

The moon was low, the color of whiskey or white wine. Draco hadn’t put fairy lights out front, but there were fireflies, winking like yellow magic in the night. The sky was full of stars. Harry looked at the field, and waited.

They came late, winking to existence on the horizon of the slope, just where the wards ended. Then they began to walk down, Ron juggling tiny Rosie, and Hermione holding Hugo’s hand.

Behind Harry, the door opened, and yellow light spilled out. Bright laughter drifted down, then Draco was beside him.

“I thought I would find you here,” he said. His voice was low and knowing; he knew a thousand things; he knew Harry inside out. Yet he could still sound mysterious somehow, seductive; it made Harry want to follow him forever.

“I was just waiting for them,” said Harry, and kept watching Ron and Hermione.

“This is the first time they’ve been here,” Draco said, without asking.

Harry nodded, and Draco loosely wrapped a hand around Harry’s wrist. He did that instead of holding hands, and Harry liked it. “I should have had them come here before,” he said.

“Sometimes it takes something different,” Draco said lightly.

Harry pushed his shoulder against him.

When Ron got to the gate, he was complaining. “She heavy, is all I’m saying. Rosie, are you sure you’re not part giant?”

“You could just let her walk,” Hermione was saying, opening the gate.

“Through that grass, are you kidding?”

“I could fly,” Hugo offered.

“Harry, Draco, hello!” said Hermione. She kissed Harry on the cheek and swept Draco into her arms. Draco always became distracted by the way his nose got buried in her large hair. “Sorry we’re late,” she said, coming away from Draco pink and breathless.

Draco straightened up his shirt and pretended he was not inordinately pleased to get hugged by Hermione.

“That’s okay,” said Harry. “Hey, Ron.”

“So, this is it,” said Ron. “Hey Draco. This is the place.”

“Yep,” said Harry.

“It’s great,” said Ron. “It’s awesome. Congratulations.”

Harry laughed. “But?”

Ron scrunched his nose. “Have you thought about putting in a road?”

Harry looked at Draco. “I don’t think we need one.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am letteredlettered on tumblr and usually follow back, especially if you let me know who you are.


End file.
